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DANTE 


HOOKS   15  Y   }i  K  N  R  Y  I)  W  I  G  H  T   S  E  D  G  W  I  C  K 


ITALY     IX    THK    THIRTEKNTH     CKNTURV 

A     SHOUT     HISTORY     OK     ITALY 

AN     APOLO(iV     FOR     OLD     MAIDS     AND     OTHER     ESSAYS 

ESSAYS     ON     GREAT     WRITERS 

LIFE     OK    FRANCIS     I' A  R  K  M  A  N  ,     ETC. 


I)  A  N  r  K 
From   thi'  bronze  lii-ml  in   I  In-  M  nseum  at  ytiples. 


DANTE 

AN     ELEMENTARY     BOOK     FOR     THOSE 

WHO    SEEK    IN    THE    GREAT    POET    THE 

TEACHER   OF    SPIRITUAL   LIFE 


BY 
HENRY  DWIGHT  SEDGWICK 


NEW  HAVEN 

YALE    UNIVERSITY    PRESS 

LONDON:  HUMPHREY  MILFORD 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

MDCCCCXX 


COPYRIGHT,    MDrrrcxvii  I,    BY 

YALE     UNIVKRSITY     I'RRSS 


First    printed,    191H. 
Reprinted,    1920. 


TO 
S.  M.  S. 


CO 


Qual  vuol  (jentil  donna  parere 
Vada  con  lei. 


0> 

e 

I 


240238 


O  Friend,  hope  in  Him  while  thou  livest, 
know  Him  while  thou  livest, 

For  in  life  is  thy  release. 
If  thy  honds  be  not  broken  while  thou  livest, 

What  hope  of  deliverance  in  death? 

If  He  is  found  now,  He  is  found  then: 

If  not,  we  go  but  to  dwell  in  the  city  of  Death. 
If  thou  hast  union  now,  thou  shalt  have  it  hereafter. 

Kabir  saith:  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  quest  that  helpeth. 
I  am  the  slave  of  the  spirit  of  the  quest. 

(Kabir) 


Notre  coeur  est  plus  grand  que  tout  le  monde. 

St.  Francois  de  Sai.es 


Our  whole  doctrine  is  nothing  else  but  an  instruction  to 
show  how  man  may  create  a  Kingdom  of  light  within  him- 
self. 

Jacob  Boeiime 


prp:face 

A  NOTHER  elementary  book  on  Dante  needs  an 
/-^  excuse.  ]My  excuse  is  that  interest  in  Dante 
■^  -^  among  people  who  have  not  the  time  or  the 
inclination  to  become  serious  students  is  very  wide- 
spread, more  so  perhaps  than  ever  before,  and  that 
as  these  people  feel  various  sorts  of  curiosity  about 
Dante,  there  may  be  those  among  them  whose  attitude 
towards  Dante  coincides  with  mine. 

Some  readers  are  eager  to  learn  about  the  political 
turmoil  in  which  he  lived,  about  Guelphs  and  Ghibel- 
lines,  about  Blacks  and  Whites,  about  Pope  Boniface 
VIII  and  Prince  Philip  of  Valois.  Others  are  drawn  to 
Dante's  theology,  to  mediaeval  Christianity,  to  the 
doctrines  of  Albertus  Magnus,  Bonaventura,  and 
Thomas  Aquinas ;  others  still  are  chiefly  concerned 
with  Dante's  exposition  of  mediaeval  science,  his 
geography,  the  Ptolemaic  astronomy,  and  similar 
matters ;  and  so  on,  through  a  wide  range  of  taste 
and  curiosity.  All  such  readers  can  find  on  any  library 
shelf  any  number  of  books  from  which  to  slake  their 
thirst.  For  centuries  scholars  have  been  delving  in  the 
past  to  unearth  facts  about  Dante's  life,  to  discover 
explanations  for  the  references  and  allusions  in  the 
Divine  Comedy,  and  to  trace  the  sources  of  his 
learning.  The  early  commentators,  Boccaccio,  Ben- 
venuto  da  Imola,  Francesco  da  Buti,  and  their  suc- 
cessors,   the    moderns,    Witte,    Ozanam,    Scartazzini, 


X  P  K  K  V  A  C  E 

our  illustrious  American  scholars,  I^ongfellow,  Lowell, 
Norton,  and  those  of  more  recent  date,  Torraca, 
Casini,  Zingarelli,  Hauvette,  Gardner,  Toynbee, 
Moore,  Wicksteed,  Oelsner,  Fletcher,  Grandgent, 
and  others,  witli  ])ious  seriousness  have  been  busy 
studying  not  only  the  world,  but  the  whole  universe, 
in  which  Dante  lived,  so  that  we  may  be  able  in 
imagination  to  put  ourselves  by  his  side,  see  what  he 
saw,  and  com])rehend  the  ho])es,  beliefs,  and  j)assions 
of  his  time. 

Nevertheless,  there  must  be  in  every  generation 
persons  whose  experiences  in  life  are  different  from 
those  of  scholars,  whose  demands  upon  life  are  dif- 
ferent from  the  demands  made  upon  life  by  scholars, 
and  wlio  therefore  seek  in  a  great  poet  an  aspect 
other  than  that  which  commonly  reveals  itself  to 
the  learned.  Of  such  seekers  some  at  least  desire  to 
forsake  the  highroad  of  erudition,  to  shake  them- 
selves free  from  authorized  guides,  and  to  obtain  for 
themselves  a  more  personal  intimacy  with  Dante's 
spirit,  and  therefore  there  is  always  a  chance  that 
what  a  man,  not  a  scholar,  gets  from  Dante  may  con- 
tain a  hint  to  help  others,  who  likewise  are  not 
scholars,  adjust  their  relations  with  the  great  poet 
more  to  their  satisfaction  than  they  would  be  able  to 
do  under  learned  guidance.  Tlic  hand  of  little  em- 
ployment, in  some  respects,  has  the  daintier  sense; 
and  there  may  be  a  value  in  the  impressions  made 
upon  the  uninstructcd,  fresher  mind  of  the  passer- 
by, who,  free  from  all  ambition  of  adding  to  the 
high  scaffolding  of  knowledge  that  has  been  built  up 
so  admirably  about  Dante,  has  sought,  not  pleasure, 


PRE  F  ACE  XI 

but   help    and    comfort    from    merely    touching,    as    it 
were,  the  garment  of  a  great  man. 

In  these  years  we  are  living  through  a  period  that 
seems  the  handiwork  of  the  Spirit  of  Evil,  as  if  the 
Almighty  had  said  to  Satan,  "Put  forth  thine  hand, 
behold  all  that  man  hath  is  within  thy  power,"  and 
we  turn  to  the  great  spiritual  leaders  of  the  world  as 
never  before.  For  many  the  traditional  doctrines  of 
Christianity  have  lost  much,  or  all,  of  their  power; 
the  comfort  that  depends  upon  suj^ernatural  virtue 
has  lost  its  soothing;  and  the  precepts  of  Stoicism 
are  not  enough  to  give  us  courage  to  look  upon  the 
world  as  we  see  it.  We  must  have  some  ideal  world 
in  our  mind's  eye,  on  the  creation  of  which  we  may 
labor  and  sacrifice  ourselves.  In  order  to  do  this  we 
must  get  spiritual  power  where  we  can;  and  Dante 
stands  ready  to  help  us.  Not  only  now,  but  in  the 
years  after  the  war  we  shall  all  need  spiritual  sup- 
port, for  history  seems  to  teach  that  after  great  wars 
people  turn  their  minds  to  material  things,  to  eating, 
drinking,  and  being  merry,  to  the  acceptance  of 
luxury,  ease,  and  comfort  as  the  goal  of  man,  and 
shut  their  eyes  to  things  of  the  spirit. 

For  these  reasons,  it  seems  to  me  likely  that,  at  the 
present  time,  here  and  there,  persons  who  lack  in- 
terest in  the  Middle  Ages,  who  remain  cold  before 
the  assertion  that  Dante  is  "the  voice  of  ten  silent 
centuries,"  or  "the  synthesis  of  mediaeval  thought," 
may  find  some  use  for  a  primer  which  leaves  learning 
one  side  and  busies  itself  with  Dante  as  a  poet  and  a 
believer  in  eternal  righteousness. 

H.  D.  S. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


Pheface 


CHAPTER 

I.  Dante's  Fame 

II.  The  Prophet  axd  his  Woiu.d 

III.  Beatrice  .... 

IV.  After  the  Death  of  Beatrick 
V.  Exile 

VI.  Ixtellectuai.   Pueparatiok 

VII.  Inferno    ..... 

VIII.  Other  Aspects  of  the  Inferno 

IX.  Purgatorio        .... 

X.  The  Happy  Side  of  Purgatory 

XI.  IxTRODUCTiox  TO  THE  Parodiso 

XII.  Paradiso  .... 

XIII.  The   Last  Years 

Appendix.  Suggestions  for  Beginners 


1 
14 
23 
34 

48 
60 
73 

at 

93 
114 
139 
146 
163 

173 


CHAPTER      I 

DANTE'S  FAME 

TO  us  of  the  Western  World,  certainly  to 
English-speaking  people,  bred  upon  the  tra- 
ditions of  Protestant  Christianity,  the  Bible 
is  the  book  first  in  rank,  supreme  over  all  other  books. 
It  is  the  base  and  prop  of  the  Christian  religion,  it  has 
played  a  guiding  part  in  the  world's  history,  and, 
in  the  English  version,  it  is  the  great  prose  classic  of 
all  literature.  No  poetry  nor  prose  can  contest  its 
primacy.  What  book  can  venture  to  claim  the  second 
place,  unless  it  be  the  Divine  Comedy? 

The  Bishop  of  Ripon,  Boyd  Carpenter,  says,  diffi- 
dently as  becomes  a  man  who  speaks  with  authority, 
that  although  Dante  is  not  the  greatest  poet,  yet 
the  Divine  Comedy  is  the  greatest  poem  we  possess. 
He  might  well  have  made  the  assertion  more  boldly; 
for  what  single  book  is  there,  leaving  the  Bible  aside, 
in  the  whole  range  of  literature  that,  in  height,  depth, 
and  amplitude  of  thought,  in  ethical,  philosophical, 
and  religious  interest,  in  intensity  and  variety  of 
human  drama,  can  match  the  Divine  Comedy?  Take 
the  Iliad  or  the  Odyssey;  great  and  beautiful  as 
they  are,  nevertheless  we,  who  are  bred  upon  near 
two  thousand  years  of  Christian  beliefs,  find  in  them 
little  ethical   and  less   religious  meaning.   We  ask  of 

1 


iS  DANTE 

a  great  book  that  it  shall  take  us  up  on  a  tower,  as  it 
were,  show  us  wider  regions  of  life  than  of  ourselves 
we  can  perceive,  and,  by  the  illumination  of  that 
wider  knowledge,  help  us  to  choose  our  own  path 
with  a  truer  sense  of  what  is  good  in  life. 

Take  any  J^lay  of  Aeschylus,  Euripides,  or  Sopho- 
cles, and  not  only  is  the  thought  in  great  measure 
alien,  but  the  powerful  concentration  of  interest  on 
one  situation  or  one  passion  is  so  solemn,  so  remote, 
so  unalloyed  by  common,  human  triviality,  that  it 
does  not  satisfy  the  various  demands  wliich  we,  of 
less  robust  souls  than  the  ancient  Hellenes,  make 
upon  literature  as  the  interpreter  of  life.  Take  the 
Aeneid  or  De  Rerum  Natura,  and  it  needs  no  second 
thought  to  see  that  neither  Virgil  nor  Lucretius  can 
feed  the  hungry  soul.  Take  King  Lear,  Othello,  or 
Macbeth;  the  play  ousts  us  from  ourselves,  it  exalts 
us  into  a  world  of  passion  high  above  our  own  world, 
and  causes  us  rather  to  forget  ourselves  than  to  en- 
noble our  own  spiritual  needs.  Hamlet  is  but  an 
exposition  of  the  helplessness  of  man  in  striving  to 
bring  his  life  into  right  relations  with  the  eternal. 
Goethe's  Faust  has  both  human  passion  and  philoso- 
phy; it  has  poetry  and  the  grand  manner;  but  in 
variety,  in  religious  reach,  in  helj^ing  us  to  put  our 
little  hands  into  a  great  heljjcr's  hand,  it  cannot 
claim — perhaps  it  would  disdain — comparison  with 
the  Commedia.  Even  in  Faust  Goethe  does  not 
divest  himself  of  his  theory  that  self-dependence 
should  be  the  goal  of  a  man's  effort.  In  French 
literature  there  is  no  book  tliat  professes  so  wide  a 
scope  of  human  interest  as  Dante's   poem,  and  none 


DANTE     S    ¥  A  M  E  o 

that  can  compare  with  its  poetry.  So,  too,  Don 
Quixote,  however  profound,  however  filled  with  the 
nobility  as  well  as  with  the  irony  of  life,  is  not  a 
poem. 

In  each  one  of  these  masterpieces  of  literature 
there  may  well  be  some  point  or  points  in  which  they 
match,  or  even  excel,  the  Divine  Comedy,  but  in  the 
combination  of  grandeur,  vividness,  tenderness,  and 
beauty,  at  least  for  a  person  who  seeks  to  find  a 
meaning  in  life  and  to  set  himself  in  right  relations 
with  the  universe,  the  Divine  Comedy  is  easily  su- 
perior, and  has  clear  title  to  a  rank  inferior  only  to 
the  Bible. 

The  poem  usually  put  forward  in  comparison  with 
the  Divine  Comedy  is  Paradise  Lost.  This  is  no  place 
to  push  comparisons  and  weigh  spiritual  and  poetic 
merits;  and  yet  two  things  may  be  suggested.  Lord 
Macaulay  states  somewhere,  that  Milton's  repu- 
tation would  stand  higher  had  Paradise  Lost  ended 
with  the  fourth  book.  One  need  not  accept  Macaulay 
as  an  authority  upon  poetry,  one  need  not  agree  with 
his  statement,  but  his  position  may  certainly  be  sup- 
ported by  argument ;  whereas^  with  the  Divine 
Comedy,  the  whole  structure  of  the  poem,  canto 
upon  canto,  culminating  at  the  end  of  the  Paradiso 
in  the  sublime  fulfillment  of  the  soul's  desire,  is  so 
excellently  contrived  that  nobody  could  suggest  that 
any  taking  from  it  would  be  other  than  a  mutilation. 
The  second  suggestion  is  that  Milton's  theologj'  is 
now  of  no  living  interest,  whereas  the  fundamental 
religious  doctrine  in  the  Divine  Comedy  is  fraught 
with  as  much  meaning  for  us  to-day  as  for  Dante's 
contemporaries  six  hundred  j'^ears  ago. 


*  DANTE 

The  career  of  the  Divine  Comedy  has  been  worthy 
of  its  rank.  f2ven  in  Dante's  lifetime,  great  noblemen 
were  interested  in  the  poem,  and  unlettered  people 
declaimed  bits  of  it  in  the  streets.  Within  a  few 
years  after  his  death  commentators  began  to  ex- 
plain the  meaning  of  the  poem,  in  P'lorence,  in 
Bologna,  and  elsewhere.  The  poet's  two  sons,  Pie- 
tro  and  Jacopo,  both  wrote  glosses ;  Pietro,  who  fol- 
lowed the  profession  of  law  in  Verona,  composed 
his  in  very  elaborate  fashion.  Giovanni  Villani,  the 
historian,  a  contemporary,  inserted  in  his  history 
of  Florence  a  little  sketch  of  the  poet.  To  receive  a 
place  beside  kings  in  a  national  chronicle  at  that 
time  was  an  unprecedented  honor  for  a  man  of 
letters.  Not  long  afterwards  Boccaccio  (1313-1375) 
wrote  his  biography  of  Dante.  Boccaccio  is  known  to 
most  of  us  as  the  author  of  the  Decameron,  and  is 
burdened  with  the  reputation  of  having  written 
stories  best  left  unwritten.  This  is  a  sorry  piece  of 
injustice.  No  doubt  Boccaccio  in  his  youth  followed 
primrose  paths ;  but  his  contemporaries  knew  him 
as  a  poet,  as  a  distinguished  scholar,  and  as  a  man 
chosen  by  his  government  to  perform  responsible 
services  for  the  state.  He  was  a  devoted  friend  to 
Petrarch  and  a  reverent  admirer  of  Dante.  He  is 
accused  of  regarding  biograj)hy  as  a  branch  of  the 
art  of  fiction;  and  it  is  true  that  he  sometimes  let  his 
pen  run  away  with  him,  and  that  he  had  little  or  no 
idea  of  investigation  or  critical  examination  in  writ- 
ing biography.  But  he  was  a  Florentine,  already 
eight  years  old  when  Dante  died,  was  acquainted 
with    Dante's    daughter   and    with    persons    who   had 


DANTE     S    r  A  ]VI  E  5 

known  Dante,  and  his  biography,  thougli  it  wanders 
away  from  its  subject  somewhat  whimsically,  is  the 
best  early  biography  of  Dante  that  there  is.  Later, 
at  the  instance  of  the  government  of  Florence,  Boc- 
caccio delivered  public  lectures  upon  the  Comedi/, 
but  owing  to  ill  health  he  got  no  further  than  the 
seventeenth  canto  of  the  Inferno.  A  year  or  two 
afterwards,  Benvenuto  da  Imola,  who  had  attended 
Boccaccio's  lectures,  lectured  upon  the  Comedy  in 
Bologna.  These  lectures  were  subsequently  cast  into 
the  form  of  a  commentary,  in  Latin.  This  commen- 
tary is  very  long,  and  full  of  discursive,  historical 
information;  it  has  been  published  in  half  a  dozen 
great  folio  volumes  by  William  Warren  Vernon,  and 
constitutes  one  of  the  great  monuments  in  the 
literature  upon  Dante.  A  few  years  later  Filippo 
Villani,  a  nephew  of  Giovanni  Villani,  wrote  a  little 
book  of  lives  of  famous  citizens  of  Florence,  which 
included  a  brief  biography  of  Dante. 

In  the  fifteenth  century,  during  the  rise  of  the 
Renaissance  in  Florence,  three  biograjDhies  were 
written,  by  Leonardo  Bruni  (1369-1444),  Giannozzo 
Manetti  (1396-1459),  and  Giovan  Mario  Filelfo 
(1426-1480).  Of  these  Leonardo  Bruni's  is  the  most 
valuable.  Besides  this  interest  shown  in  Dante's 
life,  Cristoforo  Landino  (1424-1504),  one  of  the 
early  Florentine  Platonists,  a  scholar  and  statesman, 
and  also  both  tutor  and  friend  to  Lorenzo  dei  Medici, 
wrote  another  commentary  on  the  Connnedia.  The 
great  painter,  Sandro  Botticelli  (1447-1515),  made 
illustrations  of  the  three  canticles.  Hell,  Purgatori/, 
and  Paradise.  And  Michelangelo,  who  of  all  Italians 


6  DANTE 

comes  nearest  to  Dante  in  intellectual  power  and 
magnanimity  of  soul,  wrote  this  sonnet  upon  the 
j)oet,  for  whom  he  entertained  a  passionate  reverence: 

Dal  mondo  scese  ai  ciechi  abissi,  e  poi 
Che  I'uno  e  raltro  inferno  vide,  a  Die, 
Scorto  dal  gran  pensier,  vivo  sah'o; 
E  ne  die  in  terra  vero  lume  a  noi. 

Stella  d'alto  valor,  co'  raggi  suoi 

Gli  occulti  eterni  a  noi  ciechi  scoprio; 
E  n'ebl)e  il  preniio  alfin,  che  il  mondo  rio 
Dona  sovente  ai  piu  jiregiati  eroi. 

Di  Dante  mal  fur  I'opre  conosciute, 
E'l  bel  desio,  da  (juel  popolo  ingrato, 
Che  solo  ai  giusti  nianca  di  salute. 

Pur  foss'io  tal !  che,  a  simil  sorte  nato, 
Per  I'aspro  esilio  suo  con  la  virtute 
Darei  del  mondo  il  piu  felice  stato. 

From  out  the  world  he  went  down  to  the  blind  abyss. 
And,  after  he  had  seen  all  Hell  throughout, 
Escorted  by  great  thought,  mounted  alive 
To  God,  and  gave  true  gleams  of  Him  to  us  on  earth. 

This  star  of  virtue,  l)y  his  shining  showed 
To  us  blind  men  the  hid  eternities; 
And  that  reward  received,  which  this  bad  world 
On  its  most  valiant  heroes  frc(|ucntly  bestows. 

The  poem  of  Dante  and  his  noble  hope 

Were  but  ill  known  to  that  ungrateful  folk 
Who  only  good  men  fail  to  recognize. 

Could  I  be  such  as  he,  born  to  like  deeds, 
I'd  give  the  happiest  state  in  all  the  world 
For  his  harsh  exile  with  such  virtue  joined. 

During  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries 
the  intellectual  world  of  Italy,  turning  toward  the 
classic,    and    then    to    the    baroque    and    the    rococo, 


D  A  N  T  E     S    F  A  M  E  7 

locked  down  on  the  Middle  Ages  as  barbaric,  and 
consequently  neglected  Dante ;  but  as  the  great 
human  movement  that  expressed  itself  most  dramati- 
call)'^  in  the  French  Revolution  began  to  affect  Italy, 
interest  in  Dante  revived  and  quickened;  and  since 
the  beginning  of  the  Risorgimento  Dante  has  been 
a  kind  of  guardian  genius  watching  over  Italy,  as 
reverence-insj^iring  a  figure  to  Italians  as  Pallas 
Athene  was  to  the  imagination  of  the  men  of  Athens. 
His  influence  in  Italy  has  been  twofold.  In  the  first 
place  (followed  in  the  next  generation  by  Petrarch 
and  Boccaccio,  who  carried  on  the  literary  task  that 
he  began),  he  directed  the  course  and  shaped  the  form 
of  Italian  literature.  He  found  Italy  divided  up  into 
numberless  independent  regions,  each  speaking  its 
own  dialect,  and  here  and  there  local  schools  of 
poetry,  but  no  national  literature.  By  his  poetry  and 
his  prose  he  raised  the  dialect  of  Florence  to  be  the 
language  of  Italy.  He  is  the  creator  of  the  Italian 
literary  language  to  a  degree  that  no  other  man  in  any 
country,  not  even  Luther  in  Germany,  can  boast  of. 
And  in  addition  to  that,  it  may  be  said  of  him, 
without  exaggeration,  that  he  is  the  founder  of 
United  Italy.  He  gave  to  the  people  of  the  Italian 
peninsula,  who  were  divided  and  separate,  subject 
to  all  sorts  of  petty  governments  of  King,  Pope, 
Duke,  Seigniory,  Doge,  Baron,  the  promise  of  jio- 
litical  unity  by  giving  Italy,  as  it  were,  a  soul.  He 
has  been  her  spiritual  banner.  From  him  were 
learned  the  passionate  convictions  that  Italy  should 
be  free  and  united.  He  has  been  the  rallying 
center    of   all    Italian    patriotism.    Alfieri,   who   calls 


8  DANTE 

liim  "O  gran  padre  Alighier,"  Lcopardi,  Ugo  Foscolo, 
Carducci,  and  all  the  high  aspiring  souls  of  the  Ri- 
sorgimento,  turned  towards  liini.  And  besides  all 
this,  Dante  has  held  and  liolds  an  unrivaled  place 
in  the  religious  life  of  Italy.  The  policy  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  has  been  to  discourage  private 
reading  of  the  Bible,  and  the  Divine  Comedy  has 
stepped  in  and  occupies  the  place  with  them  that 
the  Bible  holds  with  us.  It  is  the  book  for  them  that 
concerns  the  dealings  of  God  with  man. 

From  Italy  Dante's  fame  spread  rapidly  over 
Europe.  In  the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth  century 
Spain  felt  his  influence,  and  translations  appeared  in 
Castilian  and  Catalan.  In  France,  because  her 
enthusiasm  for  Italy  was  first  kindled  by  the  Italian 
Renaissance,  interest  in  Dante  lingered,  and  the 
French  did  not  begin  to  appreciate  him  until  the 
period  of  Catholic  reawakening  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  when  the  two  religious  writers  and  scliolars, 
Lamennais  and  Ozanam,  proclaimed  his  genius.  In 
Germany  Karl  Witte  (1800-1883)  stands  at  the  head 
of  all  Dante  scholars.  His  Dante-Forschungen  con- 
stitutes the  greatest  contribution  to  our  knowledge 
concerning  Dante  and  the  Divine  Comedy  that  has 
been  made  since  the  fourteentli  century;  and  since 
then  there  have  been  many  distinguished  German 
Dantists.  Among  the  living  Karl  Vossler  is  eminent. 
Karl  Witte  and  the  scholarly  King  of  Saxony, 
John  Nepomuk  Maria  Joseph,  who  wrote  under  the 
pseudonym  of  Philalethes,  both  published  trans- 
lations of  the  Comedy.  Scartazzini,  the  German 
Swiss,  is  probably  the  best  known  of  recent  foreign 


D  A  N  T  E     S    r  A  M  E  9 

commentators,  though  Mr.  Norton  said  that  he 
lacked  "the  higher  qualities"  of  the  critic. 

Dante's  fame  seems  to  have  reached  England 
earlier  than  any  other  country.  Chaucer  knew  the 
Divine  Comedy  well.  Some  of  the  Elizabethans  were 
more  or  less  acquainted  with  it;  Sir  Philip  Sidney 
for  one,  and  probably  Edmund  Spenser.  Since  then 
almost  all  the  greater  English  poets,  certainly  all 
wlio  were  scholars  (as  so  many  English  poets  have 
been),  have  admired  and  cherished  Dante, — Milton, 
Gray,  Shelley,  Byron,  Wordsworth,  Tennyson, 
Browning.  The  earliest  translation  that  still  holds 
the  field,  by  the  Rev.  Henry  Francis  Gary,  was  begun 
about  1797,  and  published  early  in  the  nineteenth 
century.  In  the  next  generation  Thomas  Garlyle 
wrote  his  celebrated  essay  on  Dante  and  Shakespeare 
(the  "Hero  as  Poet")  ;  and  his  brother  John  made 
a  prose  translation  of  the  Inferno  that  has  become 
a  classic.  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  rendered  the  Fita 
Nuova  into  English  prose  and  English  verse  as 
nearly  equal  in  beauty  to  the  original  as  the  differ- 
ence of  language  would  permit.  And  a  long  line  of 
English  scholars.  Lord  Vernon,  his  son  W.  W.  Ver- 
non, Dean  Church,  Dean  Plumptre,  Edward  Moore, 
A.  J.  Butler,  E.  G.  Gardner,  Paget  Toynbee,  P.  H. 
Wicksteed,  Oelsner,  and  others  have  devoted  their 
talents  and  industry  to  a  study  of  the  great  poet. 

In  the  United  States  perhaps  T.  W.  Parsons  is 
entitled  to  the  credit  of  leadership.  He  was  followed 
by  the  three  eminent  scholars  whose  names  are 
associated  with  Harvard  University.  Longfellow  not 
only   translated   the   Divine   Comedy   but   also   wrote 


10  DANTE 

long  notes  of  explanation.  Lowell's  essay  on  Dante  is 
famous;  and  Charles  Eliot  Norton  translated  the 
Comedy  and  the  J'^ita  Nuova  and  dedicated  a  great 
part  of  his  Italian  scholarship  to  the  service  of  Dante. 
Since  then  there  have  been  several  translations  by 
Americans ;  that  by  the  late  Henry  Johnson  of  Bow- 
doin  College  met  with  hearty  approval  from  many 
Dante  lovers^  and  a  new  translation  by  Professor 
Courtney  Langdon  of  Brown  University,  of  which 
the  Inferno  only  has  appeared^  is  excellent.  Besides 
translations,  frequent  books  of  criticism,  of  investi- 
gation, of  explanation,  as  well  as  essays  and  lectures, 
testify  to  the  living  power  of  the  great  i)oet. 

Aside  from  the  special  grounds  for  his  exalted  po- 
sition in  Italy,  the  reasons  for  the  universal  inter- 
est in  Dante  are  that  he  is  a  great  poet  and  a  great 
prophet  of  righteousness.  As  a  poet,  he  is  one  of  the 
supreme  masters  of  language.  He  takes  the  soft, 
voweled,  Italian  syllables  and  gives  them  a  temper 
and  rugged  force  equal  to  tlie  German  of  Luther's 
Bible  or  tlie  English  of  Pilgrim's  Progress.  And, 
though  we  usually  think  of  Italian  as  words  of  many 
syllables,  with  Dante  one  word  in  every  three  is  a 
monosyllable.  This  mingling  words  of  different 
lengths,  measured  by  syllables,  gives  flexibility  and 
power  to  his  verse.  And  though  the  Italian  language 
labors  under  what  to  English  ears  is  the  disadvantage 
that  almost  all  its  words  end  in  vowels,  yet  Dante,  by 
freely  clipping  off  tlie  final  vowels,  out  of  sweetness 
brings  forth  strength,  and  creates  a  sense  of  ])ower 
that  has  never  been  surpassed,  if  it  has  been  equaled, 
in    English.    His    ear    is    musical    and    he    loves    the 


dante'sfame  11 

melody  of  liis  native,  liquid  syllables;  and  yet  he  uses 
their  music  unconsciously,  or  by  an  art  so  mastered 
in  his  youth  as  to  have  become  instinctive.  He  con- 
centrates his  mind  upon  his  thought,  and  often 
disregards  his  mode  of  expression,  or,  with  a  violence 
that  Italians  call  terribilita,  forces  his  words  to  fit 
his  thought.  In  his  tender  passages  he  gives  free  rein 
to  his  genius  for  beauty,  but  he  does  not  calculate 
the  succession  of  consonants,  or  the  repetition,  or 
contrast  of  vowels,  as  lesser  poets  do.  His  harmonies, 
even  his  rare  alliterations,  spring  from  his  love  of 
music. 

Dante  also  possesses  the  magic  secret  of  arranging 
words — familiar  words  in  daily  use — in  such  an 
order  that  they  conjure  up  images  of  all  kinds,  of 
horror  or  loathsomeness,  of  beauty  and  tenderness, 
so  vividly  that  the  reader  feels  were  he  to  put  out 
his  hand  he  would  touch  them.  There  is  no  need  to 
dwell  upon  this ;  the  charm  he  has  exercised  upon 
English  poets — on  Chaucer,  Milton,  Byron,  Shel- 
ley, Coleridge,  Browning — is  proof  enough.  Byron 
said:  "There  is  no  tenderness  equal  to  the  tender- 
ness of  Dante";  Coleridge:  "In  picturesqueness 
Dante  is  beyond  all  other  poets,  ancient  or  modern"; 
and  Shelley  speaks  of  "the  exquisite  tenderness, 
sensibility,  and  ideal  beauty  in  which  Dante  excelled 
all  poets  except  Shakspere."^ 

Dante  is  very  great  as  a  poet,  but  as  a  poet  he  has 

rivals,  whereas  as  a  prophet  of  righteousness  he  has 

no  peer  since  the  time  of  the  Apostles.  It  is  for  this 

reason  that  the  book  of  Isaiah  and  St.  Paul's  Epistles 

1  Dante  in  English  Literature,  Toynbee. 


12  DANTE 

are  an  almost  necessary  preparation  for  under- 
standing the  Divine  Comedy.  He  is  the  best  medicine 
for  minds  diseased  with  skepticism  as  to  the  value 
of  righteousness. 

Sometime  or  other  in  the  ears  of  almost  all  people 
who  meet  the  ordinary  experiences  of  life,  the  voice 
of  Mephistopheles,  the  Spirit-that-denies,  sounds 
most  persuasively.  He  smiles  his  pleasant,  mocking 
smile  at  all  the  convictions  we  learned  when  we  were 
children,  as  though  they  were  merely  the  convictions 
of  children;  he  smiles  at  all  we  have  been  taught  in 
school,  at  church,  at  home,  about  honor,  loyalty, 
holiness,  and,  with  a  great  show  of  reason,  asks  why 
it  is  that  a  man  should  grunt  and  sweat  for  his 
fellow-men;  why  should  he  give  up  the  delights  of 
life  for  the  sake  of  ideas  foisted  ui)on  us  by  ages  of 
superstition;  why  should  lie  go  and  stand  in  a  trench 
in  Flanders  on  behalf  of  the  Belgians;  why  should 
he  give  his  liealth,  his  youth,  liis  life,  for  his  country.^ 
What  is  "country"  but  a  motley  collection  of  two- 
legged  animals  who  ha})pen  to  live  under  one  political 
government.'' 

In  u])on  this  state  of  mind  Dante  sweeps  like  an 
archangel  and  sj)caks,  as  when  God  s))oke  out  of  the 
whirlwind.  He  is  filled  with  the  Spirit-that-affirms. 
"Pleasure,  ease,  enjoyment!  (he  would  cry)  How 
dare  a  man  mention  such  words,  when  to  him  has 
been  given  the  j^riceless  privilege  of  life,  an  oppor- 
tunity to  fight  for  righteousness,  to  serve  God, 
to  feel  the  J03'  of  an  uplifted  soul.''"  Dante  cannot 
comprehend  and  cannot  endure  a  pusillanimous, 
eflfeminate    state    of    mind.    And,    therefore,    many 


Dante's  r  a  m  e  13 

people,  in  moments  of  doubt  or  disbelief,  especially 
in  these  dark  days,  find  strength  and  comfort  from 
his  masculine  energy  and  his  heroic  soul.  His  fame 
rests  secure  in  the  permanent  needs  of  the  human 
soul  for  poetry,  heroism,  and  holiness. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  PROPHET  AND  HIS  WORLD 

DANTE  ALIGHIERI  was  born  in  Florence 
in  the  year  1265.  He  belonged  to  that 
doubtful  generation  that  may  be  regarded 
as  tlie  last  generation  of  the  Middle  Ages  or  the  first 
of  the  Modern  World.  It  was  a  time  of  turmoil ;  the 
old  order  had  rotted  away,  and  the  new  order, 
pushing  up  through  the  broken  crust  of  the  past, 
was  still  too  rudimentary  and  unsubstantial  to  be 
recognized  by  contemporary  eyes.  The  world  of 
politics  was  topsy-turvy.  Stable  government  there 
was  none.  In  this  clash  of  old  and  new,  Dante  clung 
to  the  past.  He  turned  his  face  backwards,  and  be- 
lieved that  he  saw  through  the  arch  of  centuries,  in 
radiant  light,  a  universal  government  of  law,  order, 
and  justice, — an  imperial  rule,  which  by  the  mere 
majesty  of  its  presence  enabled  mankind  to  attain 
complete  development,  intellectual,  moral,  and  spir- 
itual. For  him  Rome  was  what  Israel  was  for  the 
Hebrew  prophets.  According  to  his  creed,  the  Roman 
Empire  had  been  established  by  the  Lord  to  carry 
out  His  divine  purpose  for  the  government  of  the 
world;  Aeneas,  like  Moses,  had  led  the  children  of  a 
covenant  into  a  })romised  land.  Sign  upon  sign, 
miracle   upon   miracle    had    shown   that   the    Romans, 

14 


THE    PROPHET    AND    HIS    WORLD     15 

"holy,  compassionate  and  glorious,"  were  God's 
chosen  people  (De  Mon.  Book  II).  The  heroes  of  the 
Repuhlic,  the  founder  of  the  Empire,  Julius  Caesar, 
and  his  successors,  the  "good"  Augustus  {Inf.  I, 
71),  Trajan,  "prince  of  high  glory"  (Purg.  X,  73), 
Justinian  (Par.  VI),  Charlemagne,  emperor  after 
emperor,  whether  Latin,  Greek,  or  Teuton,  down 
to  the  illustrious  House  of  Hohenstaufen  (/'.  E. 
I,  ch.  12),  were  all  servants  of  God,  and,  in  establish- 
ing and  maintaining  the  Roman  Empire,  had  per- 
formed His  will.  In  Dante's  judgment,  it  was  patent 
to  everybody,  by  clear-cut  "demonstration,  that 
the  Emperor,  or  Monarch  of  the  world,  is  in  direct 
relation  to  the  Prince  of  the  Universe,  who  is  God" 
(De  Mon.  Ill,  ch.  16).  In  no  way  other  than  by  sub- 
mission to  this  universal  Empire  could  mankind 
realize  the  best  that  it  is  capable  of ;  by  general 
obedience  to  this  universal  Empire  onlj'  could  peace, 
justice,  law,  and  order  be  set  up  throughout  the 
world.  But  right  does  not  make  might.  The  ancient 
sovereignty,  that  looked  so  solid  and  splendid  to 
Dante  as  he  cast  his  eyes  backward,  had  cracked  and  | ,' 
shrunk.  Interregnums,  rival  claims,  negligent  princes 
had  put  the  little  that  was  left  of  imperial  authority 
in  jeopardy,  and  had  brought  ruin  upon  Italy, 
the  fairest  of  imperial  provinces.  No  man  then  alive, 
looking  at  the  foul  disorder  in  which  she  lay,  could  \ 
guess  that  Italy  had  been,  and  of  right  still  was,  the  ' 
great  foundation,  the  origin  and  crown,  of  the 
Roman  Empire.  As  men  to-day  who  have  visited 
Belgium  are  shaken  in  their  most  familiar  notions 
of  the  stability  of  right,  so  Dante  was  shaken   and 


16  DANTE 

sick  at  heart  at  the  confusion  of  Italy;  and*  the 
bitterness  in  his  soul  increased  because  in  a  universe 
where  justice  and  mercy  are  signs  of  righteousness, 
confusion  is  tlie  sign  of  sin.  In  like  manner  Isaiah  had 
felt  for  Israel: 

Ah  sinful  nation,  a  people  laden  with  iniquity, 

A  seed  of  evil-doers,  children  that  de;d  corruptly: 

They  have  forsaken  the  I>ord, 

They  have  despised  the  Holy  One  of  Israel; 

They  are  estranged  and  gone  backward.   .    .    . 

Your  country  is  desolate;  your  cities  are  burned  with  fire, 

Your  land,  strangers  devour  it  in  your  presence, 

And  it  is  desolate,  as  overthrown  by  strangers. 

Isaiah  i,  4-7 

With  the  death  of  the  Emperor  Frederick  II  (1250) 
the  Roman  Empire  had  collapsed.  The  last  imperial 
family,  the  Ilohenstaufcns,  had  been  cut  off  by  their 
enemies,  root  and  branch,  and  the  German  princes 
who  succeeded  Frederick  II  concerned  themselves 
wholly  with  Germany  and  their  own  personal  for- 
tunes, leaving  Italy  a  prey  to  anarchy.  Every- 
where throughout  the  peninsula  there  was  jealousy, 
hatred,  and  war.  In  Lombardy,  each  city — Milan, 
Pavia,  Parma,  Cremona — foug])t  with  its  neigh- 
bor ;  in  Tuscany,  Florence,  Siena,  Arezzo,  Lucca, 
Pistoia  did  the  same ;  Rome  fouglit  the  little 
cities  roundabout;  the  kingdom  of  Naples  was  split 
in  two,  and  Sicily  fought  the  mainland;  outside 
the  walled  towns,  feudal  barons  sallied  forth  from 
castles,  perched  on  outlying  hills  of  the  Alps  or 
Apennines,  and  robbed  and  laid  waste  in  savage 
fury ;   and   on   the  waters  that   encompass    Italy   the 


THE    PROPHET    AND    HIS    AVORLD     17 

armed  galleys  of  Venice,  Genoa,  and  Pisa  sunk  one 
another.  And  as  cit}'^  fought  against  city,  so  within 
each  town  political  party  fought  against  political 
party,  class  against  class,  family  against  family.  In 
an  apostrophe  to  Italy  Dante  says: 

Ahi  serva  Italia,  di  dolore  ostello, 
nave  senza  nocchiero  in  gran  tempesta, 
non  donna  di  provlncie,  ma  bordello ! 


ed  era  in  te  non  stanno  senza  guerra 

li  vivi  tuoi,  e  Tun  I'altro  si  rode 

di  quei  che  un  muro  ed  una  fossa  serra. 
Cerca,  niisera,  intorno  dalle  prode 

le  tue  marine,  e  poi  ti  guarda  in  seno, 

se  alcuna  parte  in  te  di  pace  gode. 

Ah,  Italy !  Thou  slave,  thou  ostelry  of  woe ! 
Ship  without  pilot  in  a  mighty   storm. 
She  that  was  once  a  princess  among  provinces 

How  now  become  a  brothel ! 

They  that  now  dwell  in  thee  are  all  at  war: 
Even  men  encompassed  by  one  wall,  one  moat. 
Rend  each  the  other.   Search,  wretched   Italy, 

Along  thy  seashore,  over  every  coast. 
And  in  thy  bosom  look,  to  find 
If  any  place  in  thee  enjoyeth  peace. 

Purg.  VI,  76-87 

The  weight  of  lawlessness  lay  heavy  on  the  land; 
but  the  fault,  according  to  Dante,  was  not  due  to  the 
political  institution  of  empire  contrived  by  Provi- 
dence, but  to  the  derelictions  of  negligent  Emperors. 
And  the  Emperors  were  not  alone  in  blame.  Another 
mighty   edifice   had   been    created    and    built   up    by 


18  1)  A  X  T  E 

Providence  for  the  welfare  of  mankind,  the  Holy 
Roman  Apostolic  Church.  Christ  had  given  to  Peter, 
and  his  successors,  power  over  spiritual  things, 
symbolized  by  the  keys  of  heaven;  He  had  estab- 
lished His  Church  to  be  the  ark  of  His  covenant  for 
all  the  world;  but  the  guardians  to  whom  the  ark 
had  been  committed  were  not  faithful  to  their  trust. 
Instead  of  keeping  their  hearts  and  minds  fixed  on 
the  things  of  heaven,  they  had  succumbed  to  the 
itchings  of  covetousness.  Pope  Sylvester  had  ac- 
cepted from  the  Emperor  Constantine  a  great  grant 
of  temporal  power  and  possessions  {Inf.  XIX,  115- 
117).  That  fatal  grant  was  the  beginning  of  world- 
liness ;  and  worldliness  had  grown  by  what  it  fed 
upon.  Christ  had  said:  "Provide  neitlier  gold,  nor 
silver,  nor  brass  in  your  purses,  nor  scrip  for  your 
journey"  {Be  Mon.  Ill,  X,  109-110);  and  yet,  in 
flat  disobedience  to  His  command,  priests,  prelates, 
popes,  had  turned  their  backs  on  tlie  concerns  of 
the  soul  and  sought  for  earthly  riches  and  earthly 
dominion.  Peter  and  Paul  had  gone  about  lean  and 
unshod,  taking  food  when  and  where  it  might  be 
given  to  them,  but  priests  of  mediaeval  Italy  went 
heavily  laden  with  possessions  {Par.  XXI,  127-132); 
the  popes  Nicholas  III  (1277-1280)  and  Boniface 
VIII  (1294-1303)  set  terrible  examjiles  of  selling  the 
gifts  of  the  spirit  for  money  {Inf.  XIX).  They  had 
polluted  the  papacy,  as  had  been  foretold  by  St. 
John  the  Divine  in  the  Apocalypse:  "I  saw  a  woman 
sit  upon  a  scarlet-coloured  beast,  full  of  names  of 
blasphemy  .  .  .  and  the  woman  was  arrayed  in 
purple  and  scarlet-colour,  and  decked  with  gold  and 


THE    PROPHET    AND    HIS    AVORI.D     19 

precious  stones  and  pearls,  having  a  golden  cup  in 
her  hand  full  of  abominations  and  filthiness"  (Rev. 
xvii,  3-4,  Inf.  XIX,  106-109). 

Love  of  comfort,  ease,  luxury,  power,  had  infected 
the  Church.  And  worse  than  this,  the  Papacy  had 
not  only  not  performed  its  own  duty,  but  it  had 
thwarted  the  Empire  in  doing  its  duty.  Providence 
had  assigned  to  each  its  task.  The  Emperor's  duty 
was  to  enforce  law  and  order, — he  was  the  supreme 
temporal  lord  of  the  world;  the  Pope's  duty  was  to 
instruct  and  guide  men's  souls, — he  was  the  supreme 
spiritual  lord.  Their  functions  were  separate  and 
distinct;  but  the  Popes  had  not  only  opposed  the 
Emperors  in  temporal  matters  and  encouraged  and 
stirred  up  rebellion  against  them,  but  even  assumed 
imperial  functions  themselves,  converting  their 
sacred  office  into  a  secular  government.  They  had 
debased  religion  and  confounded  temporal  matters 
(Purg.  XVI). 

With  the  Roman  Pope  thwarting  and  fighting  the 
Roman  Emperor,  how  could  the  peoj^le  of  Florence, 
who  should  have  been  able  to  live  in  tranquillity 
beside  their  vines  and  fig  trees  under  the  sword  of  the 
Emperor  and  the  crook  of  the  Pope,  hope  to  have 
leisure  and  oj^portunity  to  achieve  a  higher  morality 
and  to  pursue  a  spiritual  life?  All  the  good  old  ways 
were  gone.  The  old  Florence,  that  had  lived  in  peace, 
sobriety,  and  modesty,  Avas  a  thing  of  the  past.  In 
earlier  generations  the  principal  men  of  the  city  used 
to  lead  lives  of  frugal  dignity ;  they  were  too  proud 
to  indulge  in  vulgar  luxury;  they  wore  jerkins  made 
of   leather,   and   their    wives    spun   their    own    linen. 


20  DANTE 

The  women  lived  simply;  they  tended  the  cradle 
themselves,  and  told  their  children  stories  of  how 
their  ancestors  founded  Rome  and  Florence,  Rome's 
most  beautiful  daughter;  then  homes  were  really 
homes  {Par.  XV).  But  now,  in  Dante's  time,  the 
women  decked  themselves  witli  coronets  and  chains, 
they  painted  their  faces,  they  dressed  immodestly. 
So  had  it  been  in  Isaiah's  time:  "Because  the 
daughters  of  Zion  are  haughty,  and  walk  with 
stretched  forth  necks  and  wanton  eyes,  walking  and 
mincing  as  they  go,  and  making  a  tinkling  with  their 
feet:  tlierefore  the  Lord  will  smite  with  a  scab  the 
crown  of  the  head  of  the  daughters  of  Zion  .  .  .  the 
Lord  will  take  away  the  bravery  of  their  anklets,  and 
the  cauls,  and  the  crescents;  .  .  .  and  the  fine  linen, 
.    .    .  and  the  veils"  (Isaiah,  iii,  16-23). 

Lowered  standards  of  personal  dignity  were  among 
the  least  of  the  evils.  In  the  absence  of  orderly  gov- 
ernment, in  the  absence  of  religion,  in  the  sudden  ac- 
quisition of  riches  {Inf.  XVI,  73),  wickedness  and 
vice  flourished  malignantly.  INIen  familiarly  known  in 
Florence  and  in  neighboring  towns,  Pistoia,  Lucca, 
Siena,  Arezzo,  were  guilty  of  gluttony  and  drunken- 
ness, of  mad  anger,  of  highway  robbery,  of  usury,  of 
malfeasance  in  office,  of  bestial  sins;  but  very  few 
anywhere  in  all  Italy  strove  after  virtue. 

Such  was  tlie  world  as  it  appeared  to  Dante  when 
he  looked  about  him  with  tlie  disillusioned  eyes  of 
manhood;  and,  like  the  prophets  of  old,  his  soul  cried 
out:  "Why  dost  Thou  show  me  iniquity  and  cause 
me  to  behold  grievance."^"  Like  tliem,  he  felt  the  bur- 
den of  sin ;  like  them,  his  whole  being  compelled  him 


THE    PROPHET    AND    HIS    WORLD     21 

in  the  midst  of  darkness,  to  search  for  light;  like 
them,  lie  was  filled  with  an  imperious  need  of  be- 
lieving in  a  God  of  order,  reason,  justice,  and  mercy, 
of  seeking  for  Him,  of  finding  and  then  proclaim- 
ing Him.  Such  is  a  propliet's  nature;  such  is  a 
prophet's  task. 

Turning  from  a  troubled  Avorld  toward  the  heaven 
of  spiritual  peace,  is  a  phenomenon  common  enough 
in  great  souls.  It  marks  a  large  number  of  the  saints; 
and  both  tlie  beginning  and  the  continuance  of  the 
process  are  of  absorbing  interest.  In  the  case  of  some 
men,  there  is  what  in  popular  speech  is  called  con- 
version, which  takes  place,  on  the  surface  at  least, 
very  rapidly,  sometimes  almost  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye,  and  is  so  obscure  in  its  working  that  it  seems 
to  be  the  doing  of  supernatural  power.  In  the  case 
of  others, there  is  a  slow  series  of  contributory  causes, 
in  which  sometimes  the  heart,  sometimes  the  intel- 
lect, is  the  dominant  factor.  In  almost  all  the  cases 
we  have  little  or  no  information  beyond  what  the 
persons  converted  tell  us  themselves.  Of  Isaiah's  illu- 
mination we  know  nothing  except  that,  as  he  says, 
a  seraph  came  and  touched  his  lips  with  a  coal  of 
fire.  Of  St.  Paul  we  know  how  his  violent  nature  led 
him  to  consent  to  Stephen's  death,  how  he  haled 
Christians  to  prison,  and  how  there  shined  round 
him  a  great  light  from  heaven,  and  he  heard  a  voice 
say:  "Saul,  Saul,  why  persecutest  thou  me.'*"  St. 
Augustine  tells  us  of  an  unpoised  and  disordered 
youth,  and  how,  by  the  way  of  philosophy,  of  Plato, 
Cicero,  and  St.  Paul,  he  came  to  where,  yearning 
for  truth  under  the  fig  tree,  he  heard  a  voice  saying: 


22  DANTE 

"Tolle  lege,  tolle  lege" — "Take  up  thy  Bible  and 
read."  And  John  Bunyan  says  "that  had  not  a 
miracle  of  grace  prevented,  I  had  not  only  perished  by 
the  stroke  of  eternal  justice,  but  had  also  laid  myself 
open,  even  to  the  stroke  of  those  laws,  which  bring 
some  to  disgrace  and  open  shame  before  the  face  of 
the  -world" {Grace  Abounding  to  the  Chief  of  Sinners), 
and  yet  he  gives  us  no  exposition  of  the  miracle. 

In  the  lives  of  these  four,  Isaiah,  St.  Paul,  St. 
Augustine,  and  Bunyan,  there  was  a  spiritual  crisis 
that  turned  them  from  the  carnal  life  to  the  spiritual 
life ;  but,  except  in  the  case  of  St.  Augustine,  we 
know  little  of  the  stages  that  preceded  the  crisis. 
With  Dante  it  is  different;  with  him  the  process  of 
illumination  began  in  his  youth  and  continued  all 
his  life.  Two  great  teachers  guided  his  soul  and  taught 
him  the  profoundest  lessons  of  life;  one  taught  him 
in  his  youth,  the  other  taught  him  in  his  mature 
years.  The  first  teacher  was  Beatrice ;  the  second. 
Exile.  "Without  Beatrice,  his  eyes  would  not  have  been 
lifted  up  so  high;  without  Exile,  he  would  not  have 
discovered  the  inner  life  in  its  fullness.  So  the  de- 
velopment of  Dante's  spiritual  life  w.is  gradual.  In 
place  of  a  crisis,  he  underwent  growth ;  and,  in  the 
end,  arrived  face  to  face  with  the  profoundest 
realities  imaginable  by  man.  The  first  stage  of  the 
long  road  that  he  traveled,  he  has  described  at  length 
in  the  J'ita  Nuova.  The  second  stage  we  know  by 
deductions  from  the  Commedia  and  from  casual 
remarks  and  references  elsewhere.  His  confessions 
are  nearly  as  full  as  those  of  St.  Augustine,  and  tell 
in  fairly  definite  sequence  and  detail  the  several 
stages  of  his  spiritual  drama. 


CHAPTKR    III 

BEATRICE 

DANTE'S  family — father,  mother,  brother, 
and  sisters — played  little  part  so  far  as  we 
know  in  his  life;  he  mentions  a  sister  (at 
least  such  is  the  interpretation  put  on  one  passage  of 
the  Vita  Nuova)  but  none  of  the  others.  We  know 
nothing  of  any  schoolmaster  or  preceptor  except 
Messer  Brunette  Latini,  and  of  him  as  such  only 
through  a  passage  in  the  Inferno.  There  Dante  says: 

in  la  mente  ni'e  fitta,  ed  or  mi  accora, 
la  cara  e  buona  imagine  paterna 
di  vol,  quando  nel  niondo  ad  era  ad  era 
m'insegnavate  come  Tuom  s'eterna; 

Within  my  memory  is  fixed,  and  now  it  wrings  my  heart. 
Your  dear  and  kindly  image,  like  a  father's. 
As  when  in  life,  from  hour  to  hour,  you  taught 
Me  how  a  man  shall  have  eternal  life. 

Inf.  XV,  8;3-85 

But  Brunetto  Latini  was  a  distinguished  citizen, 
widely  known  from  his  learned  books,  old  enough  to 
be  Dante's  grandfather,  and  busy  with  public  affairs, 
so  that  the  relations  between  Dante  and  him  could 
hardly  have  been  more  than  those  between  a  young 
man  who  bore  the  stamp  of  genius  on  his  face  and 
the    elderly    man    who   recognized   the    stamp.    What 

23 


24  DAN  T  E 

Dante  means  by  the  words  "come  I'uom  s'eterna" 
seems  to  be  a  reference  to  Christ's  teaching.  "Be- 
hold, one  came,  and  said  to  him.  Good  Master,  what 
good  thing  shall  I  do,  that  I  may  have  eternal  life? 
And  he  said  unto  him,  ...  If  thou  wilt  enter  into 
life,  keep  the  commandments.  He  saith  unto  him, 
Which.''  Jesus  said.  Thou  shalt  do  no  murder.  Thou 
shalt  not  commit  adultery,  Thou  shalt  not  steal.  Thou 
shalt  not  bear  false  witness,  Honour  thy  father  and 
thy  motlier^  and  Thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbour  as 
thyself.  The  young  man  said  unto  him,  All  these 
things  have  I  kept  from  my  youtli  up:  what  lack 
I  yet?  Jesus  said  unto  him.  If  thou  wilt  be  perfect, 
go  and  sell  that  thou  hast,  and  give  to  the  poor,  and 
thou  slialt  have  treasure  in  heaven;  and  come  and 
follow  me"  (St.  Matt,  xix,  16-21).  There  could  not 
have  been  a  more  tender  or  beautiful  reference  to 
Brunetto  Latini's  influence. 

The  education,  however,  that  molded  all  his  life 
came  from  another  source.  To  him  was  vouchsafed 
in  early  youth  a  revelation  of  the  divine,  in  the  form 
of  a  radiant  girl.  To  some  men  revelation  of  the 
divine  has  come  through  sacred  books,  to  others 
through  some  saintly  person,  to  others  from  the  soli- 
tude of  the  desert,  from  illness,  from  a  child.  There 
arc  many  ways  from  God  to  tlie  heart  of  man.  Mark 
Rutherford  says:  "The  love  of  woman  to  man  is  a 
revelation  of  the  relationship  in  which  God  stands  to 
him.  ...  I  was  wretclicd  till  I  considered  that  in  her 
I  saw  the  Divine  Nature  itself,  and  that  her  passion 
was  a  stream  straight  from  the  highest.  The  love  of 
woman    is,   in    other   words,    a   living   witness    never 


BEATRICE  25 

failing  of  an  actuality  in  God  which  otherwise  we 
should  never  know"  {Mark  Rutherford's  Deliverance, 
Ch,  VIII).  So  was  it  with  Dante;  only  the  revelation 
lay  in  his  love  for  Beatrice,  rather  than  in  her  love 
for  him.  It  was  Beatrice,  not  Brunetto  Latini,  who 
started  Dante's  steps  upon  the  way  that  leads  to  the 
life  of  the  soul.  That  she  was  a  real  person,  seems  to 
me,  though  eminent  scholars  have  thought  otherwise, 
heyond  a  doubt.  Dante's  own  son,  Pietro,  says  that 
she  was ;  and  Boccaccio,  who,  though  of  the  next 
generation,  knew  near  members  of  Dante's  family, 
in  his  biography  tells  how  they  first  met,  or — if  we 
think  that  he  is  drawing  on  his  imagination — how 
they  might  have  met. 

Dante's  love  was  not  ordinary  mortal  love.  His 
love  M'as  the  love  of  a  poet  and  saint ;  for  him  love 
must  be  a  revelation  of  the  grace  of  God,  and  he 
turned,  with  all  the  confidence  of  innocence,  not  to 
Holy  Writ  nor  to  ecclesiastical  worship,  but  to  the 
girlish  loveliness  of  Beatrice  Portinari.  As  the  needs 
of  his  spirit  grew  deeper,  and  the  power  of  his  spirit 
grew  stronger,  her  figure  became  idealized,  crowned 
with  light,  transfigured,  until  at  last,  when  her 
earthly  body  came  to  its  earthly  end,  she  Avas  trans- 
lated into  the  "light  between  the  truth  and  the  in- 
tellect," the  wisdom  of  holiness  that  leads  the  soul 
to  God. 

In  his  book,  The  New  Life,  Dante  relates  all  that 
we  know  of  his  acquaintance  with  her:  "Nine  times 
already  since  my  birth  had  the  heaven  of  light  re- 
turned to  the  selfsame  point,  .  .  .  when  first  the 
glorious    Lady    of    my    mind    was    made    manifest   to 


26  D  A  N  T  K 

mine  eyes ;  even  slie  M'ho  was  called  Beatrice  bv 
many  mIio  knew  not  wherefore.  .  .  .  She  appeared 
to  me  at  the  beginning  of  her  ninth  year  almost^  and 
I  saw  her  almost  at  the  end  of  mj'  ninth  year.  Her 
dress,  on  that  day  was  of  a  most  noble  colour,  a 
subdued  and  goodly  crimson,  girdled  and  adorned  in 
such  sort  as  best  suited  with  her  very  tender  age.  At 
that  moment,  I  say  most  truly  that  the  spirit  of  life, 
which  hath  its  dwelling  in  the  secretest  chamber  of 
the  lieart,  began  to  tremble  so  violently  that  the 
least  pulses  of  my  body  shook  therewith;  and  in 
trembling  it  said  these  words:  Ecce  deus  fortior  me, 
qui  veniens  dominabitur  mihi  [Here  is  a  deity 
stronger  than  I,  who,  coming,  shall  rule  over  me], 
...  I  say  that,  from  that  time  forward,  Love  quite 
governed  my  soul ;  which  was  immediately  espoused 
to  him,  and  with  so  safe  and  undisputed  a  lordship 
(bv  virtue  of  strong  imagination),  that  I  had  nothing 
left  for  it  but  to  do  all  his  bidding  continually.  He 
oftentimes  commanded  me  to  seek  if  I  might  see  this 
youngest  of  the  Angels:  wherefore  I  in  my  boyhood 
often  went  in  search  of  her,  and  found  her  so  noble 
and  praiseworthy  that  certainly  of  her  might  have 
been  said  those  words  of  the  poet  Homer:  'She  seemed 
not  to  be  the  daughter  of  a  mortal  man,  but  of  God.' 
And  albeit  licr  image,  that  was  with  me  always,  was 
an  exultation  of  Love  to  subdue  me,  it  was  yet  of  so 
j)erfect  a  quality  that  it  never  allowed  me  to  be  over- 
ruled by  Love  without  the  faithful  counsel  of 
reason.  .    .    . 

"After  the  laf)se  of  so  many  days  that  nine  years 
fxactly     were     completed     since     the     above-written 


B  E  A  T  II  I  C  E  27 

appearance  of  this  most  gracious  being,  on  the  last 
of  those  days  it  hapijened  that  the  same  wonderful 
lady  appeared  to  me  dressed  all  in  pure  white,  be- 
tween two  gentle  ladies  elder  than  she.  And  passing 
through  a  street,  she  turned  her  eyes  thither  where 
I  stood  sorely  abashed:  and  by  her  unspeakable 
courtesy,  which  is  now  guerdoned  in  the  Great 
Cycle,  she  saluted  me  with  so  virtuous  a  bearing  that 
I  seemed  then  and  there  to  behold  the  very  limits  of 
blessedness.  The  hour  of  her  most  sweet  salutation 
was  certainly  the  ninth  of  that  day;  and  because  it 
was  the  first  time  that  any  words  from  her  reached 
mine  ears,  I  came  into  such  sweetness  that  I  parted 
thence  as  one  intoxicated.  And  betaking  me  to  the 
loneliness  of  mine  own  room,  I  fell  to  thinking  of 
this  most  courteous  lady,  thinking  of  whom  I  was 
overtaken  by  a  pleasant  slumber,  wherein  a  marvel- 
ous vision  was  presented  to  me."  Here  he  tells  of  a 
vision.  Love,  of  terrible  asj^ect,  appeared  holding 
Beatrice  in  his  arms  and  Dante's  heart  in  his  hand, 
and  gave  Beatrice  to  eat  of  the  heart  and  she  ate  as 
one  fearing.  "From  that  night  forth,  the  natural 
functions  of  my  body  began  to  be  vexed  and  impeded, 
for  I  was  given  up  wholly  to  thinking  of  this  most 
gracious  creature:  whereby  in  short  space  I  became 
so  weak  and  so  reduced  that  it  was  irksome  to  many 
of  my  friends  to  look  upon  me ;  while  others,  being 
moved  by  spite,  went  about  to  discover  what  it  was 
my  wish  should  be  concealed.  Wherefore  I  (perceiv- 
ing the  drift  of  their  unkindly  questions),  by  Love's 
will,  who  directed  me  according  to  the  counsels  of 
reason,  told  them  how  it  was  Love  himself  who  had 


28  DAN  T  E 

thus  dealt  with  me:  and  I  said  so,  because  the  thing 
■was  so  plainly  to  be  discerned  in  my  countenance 
that  there  "was  no  longer  any  means  of  concealing  it. 
But  Avhen  they  went  on  to  ask,  'And  by  whose  help 
hath  Love  done  this  ?'  I  looked  in  their  faces  smiling, 
and  spake  no  word  in  return." 

It  so  happened,  that  in  church  one  day  Dante  was 
gazing  at  Beatrice,  and  that  another  lady,  of  a 
pleasant  face,  sat  in  a  line  between  him  and  her,  and 
people,  seeing  the  direction  but  mistaking  the 
object  of  his  sight,  thought  that  this  other  lady  was 
his  love;  and  he,  learning  this,  encouraged  the  error, 
and,  resolving  to  make  use  of  her  as  a  "screen  to  the 
truth,"  wrote  rimes  in  her  honor.  But  this  lady 
went  away  to  another  city,  and  then  at  Love's  in- 
stigation Dante  took  another  "screen"  lady  to  be 
his  protection,  "in  such  sort  that  the  matter  was 
spoken  of  by  many  in  terms  scarcely  courteous ; 
through  the  which  I  had  oftenwhiles  many  trouble- 
some hours.  And  by  this  it  happened  (to  wit:  by  this 
false  and  evil  rumour  which  seemed  to  misfame  me 
of  vice)  that  she  who  was  the  destroyer  of  all  evil 
and  the  queen  of  all  good,  coming  Avhere  I  was, 
denied  me  her  most  sweet  salutation,  in  the  which 
alone  was  my  blessedness. 

"And  here  it  is  fitting  for  me  to  depart  a  little  from 
this  ])resent  matter,  tliat  it  may  be  rightly  under- 
stood of  what  surpassing  virtue  her  salutation  was  to 
me.  To  the  which  end  I  say  that  when  she  appeared 
in  any  place,  it  seemed  to  me,  by  the  hope  of  her 
excellent  salutation,  tiiat  there  was  no  man  mine 
enemy    any    longer;     and    such    warmth    of    charity 


BEATRICE  29 

came  upon  me  that  most  certainly  in  that  moment 
I  would  have  pardoned  whosoever  had  done  me  an 
injury;  and  if  one  should  then  have  questioned  me 
concerning  any  matter^  I  could  only  have  said  unto 
him  'Love,'  with  a  countenanoe  clothed  in  humble- 
ness.   ..." 

"And  when  for  the  first  time  this  beatitude  was 
denied  me,  I  became  possessed  with  such  grief  that 
parting  myself  from  others,  I  went  into  a  lonely 
place  to  bathe  the  ground  with  most  bitter  tears: 
and  when,  by  this  heat  of  weeping,  I  was  somewhat 
relieved,  I  betook  myself  to  my  chamber,  where  I 
could  lament  unheard.    ..." 

Dante  then  recounts  further  visions  of  Love,  in 
one  of  which  Love  said:  "It  is  my  will  that  thou 
compose  certain  things  in  rhyme,  in  the  which  thou 
shalt  set  forth  how  strong  a  mastership  I  have  ob- 
tained over  thee,  through  her;  and  how  thou  wast 
hers  even  from  childliood."  And  he  inserts  odes  and 
sonnets  on  which  he  makes  comments ;  and  he  nar- 
rates sundry  episodes,  how  he  saw  Beatrice  at  a 
wedding  feast ;  how  she  grieved  for  the  death  of  her 
father;  how  he  had  a  presentiment  of  her  death;  and 
other  episodes.  And  in  the  middle  he  puts  a  long 
digression  on  poetry.  Then  he  takes  up  the  thread 
again. 

"But  returning  to  the  matter  of  my  discourse. 
This  excellent  lady,  of  whom  I  spake  in  what  hath 
gone  before,  came  at  last  into  such  favour  with  all 
men,  that  when  she  passed  anywhere  folk  ran  to 
behold  her;  which  thing  was  a  deep  joy  to  me:  and 
when   she    drew   near   unto   any,   so  much    truth    and 


80  DANTE 

simpleness  entered  into  his  heart,  that  he  dared 
neither  to  lift  his  eyes  nor  to  return  her  salutation: 
and  unto  this,  many  who  have  felt  it  can  bear  wit- 
ness. She  went  along  crowned  and  clothed  with 
humility,  showing  no  whit  of  pride  in  all  that  she 
heard  and  saM':  and  M'hen  she  had  gone  by,  it  was  said 
of  many:  'This  is  not  a  Avoman,  but  one  of  the  beauti- 
ful angels  of  Heaven,'  and  there  were  some  that  said: 
'This  is  surely  a  miracle;  blessed  be  the  Lord,  who 
hath  power  to  work  thus  marvelously.'  I  say,  of 
very  sooth,  that  she  showed  herself  so  gentle  and  so 
full  of  all  perfection,  that  she  bred  in  those  who 
looked  upon  her  a  soothing  quiet  beyond  any  speech; 
neither  could  any  look  upon  her  without  sigliing 
immediately.  These  things,  and  things  yet  more 
wonderful,  were  brought  to  pass  through  her  mirac- 
ulous virtue."  So  he  wrote  a  sonjiet  to  express  in 
poetry  what  he  had  just  said: 

Tanto  gentile  e  tanto  onesta  pare 

l.a  donna  mia,  quand'  ella  altrui  saluta, 

Ch'  ogni   lingua  divien   tremando  inuta, 

E  gli  occhi  non  ardiscon  di  guardare. 
Ella  sen  va,  sentendosi  laudare, 

lienignarnente  d'uriiilta  vestuta; 

E  par  die  sia  una  cosa  venuta 

Di  cielo  in  terra  a  miracol  inostrare. 
Mostrasi  si  piacente  a  chi  la  mira, 

Che  da  per  gli  occhi  una  dolcezza  al  core, 

Che  intender  non  la  pu6  chi  non  la  prova. 
E  par  ohc  ddla  sua  labhia  si  rnuova 

Uno  spirto  soavo  <•  picn  d'aniore, 

Che  va  dicendo  all'aninia:  sospira. 


BEATRICE  31 

My  lady  looks  so  gentle  and  so  pure 

When  yielding  salutation  by  the  way, 

That  the  tongue  trembles  and  has  nought  to  say, 
And  the  eyes,  which  fain  would  see,  may  not  endure. 
And  still,  amid  the  praise  she  hears  secure, 

She  walks  with  humbleness  for  her  array; 

Seeming  a  creature  sent  from  Heaven  to  stay 
On  earth,  and  show  a  miracle  made  sure. 
She  is  so  pleasant  in  the  eyes  of  men 
That  through  the  sight  the  inmost  heart  doth  gain 

A  sweetness  which  needs  proof  to  know  it  by: 
And  from  between  her  lips  there  seems  to  move 
A  soothing  spirit  that  is  full  of  love, 

Saying  forever  to  the  soul,  "O  sigh!" 

He  also  wrote  another  sonnet  and  beg<an  an  ode 
to  tell  of  the  manner  in  which  he  was  subject  to  her 
influence.  Then  he  says:  "I  was  still  occupied  with 
this  poem  .  .  .  when  the  Lord  God  of  justice  called 
my  most  gracious  lady  unto  Himself,  that  she  might 
be  glorious  under  the  banner  of  that  blessed  Queen 
Mary,  whose  name  had  always  a  deep  reverence  in 
the  words  of  holy  Beatrice." 

Then  follow  certain  episodes,  somewhat  apart  from 
the  main  matter  of  the  story,  the  last  of  which, 
however,  leads  up  to  the  sonnet  that  begins: 

Oltre  la  spera,  che  piu  larga  gira, 

Passa  il  sospiro  ch'  esce  del  mio  core: 
Intelligenza  nuova,  che  I'Amore 
Piangendo  mette  in  lui,  pur  su  lo  tira. 

Beyond  the  sphere  which  spreads  to  widest  space 
Now  soars  the  sigh  that  my  heart  sends  above: 
A  new  perception  born  of  grieving  Love 

Guideth  it  upward  the  untrodden  ways. 


32  DANTE 

And  he  says:  "After  writing  this  sonnet,  it  was 
given  unto  me  to  behold  a  very  wonderful  vision ; 
wherein  I  saw  tilings  which  determined  me  that  I 
would  say  nothing  further  of  this  most  blessed  one, 
until  such  time  as  I  could  discourse  more  Avorthily 
concerning  her.  And  to  this  end  I  labour  all  I  can; 
as  she  well  knoweth.  Wherefore  if  it  be  His  pleasure 
through  whom  is  the  life  of  all  things,  that  my  life 
continue  with  me  a  few  years,  it  is  my  hope  that  I 
shall  yet  write  concerning  her  what  hath  not  before 
been  written  of  any  woman.  After  the  which,  may 
it  seem  good  unto  Him  who  is  the  Master  of  Grace, 
that  my  spirit  should  go  hence  to  behold  the  glory 
of  its  lady:  to  wit,  of  that  Blessed  Beatrice  who  now 
gazeth  continually  on  His  countenance  qui  est  per 
omnia  saecula   benedictus"    (Rossetti's   translation). 

Here  we  find  the  glory  of  God  gleaming  upon  the 
young  prophet  and  leading  him  on.  It  is  a  story  illu- 
mined more  by  the  light  of  heaven  than  of  earth. 
The  poet  takes  his  memories  of  Beatrice,  the  beauti- 
ful girl  with  whom  he  played  as  a  child  and  saw  at 
rare  intervals  in  his  adolescence,  and  arranges  them 
in  order,  as  if  they  were  comments,  around  a  num- 
ber of  his  earliest  jioems,  both  sonnets  and  odes, 
so  that  the  poems  are  strung  like  beads  on  the 
thread  of  his  experience.  And  since,  at  the  time  of 
writing,  after  the  deatli  of  Beatrice,  he  has  plunged 
into  the  study  of  scholastic  philosophy,  he  gives  to 
all  his  memories  a  touch  of  allegory,  and  indicates 
darkly  how,  to  the  discerning  mind,  they  embody 
deep  truths  concerning  the  turning  of  the  soul  to 
God.  At  the  same  time,  possessed  by  a  sense  that  the 


BEATRICE  33 

mystery  of  Godhead  is  in  all  about  us,  he  seeks  to 
indicate  the  presence  of  this  mystery  by  recounting 
his  visions,  real  or  imaginary,  and  by  dwelling  upon 
mystic  numbers,  three,  nine,  and  seven.  No  doubt, 
the  conscious  artist  is  at  work ;  and  the  whole  scheme 
of  the  book  shows  that  Dante  has  been  under  the 
influence  of  Guido  Guinizelli's  famous  ode: 

Al  cor  gentil  ripara  sempre  Amore 
Sicconie  augello  in  selva  alia  verdura. 

Nfe  fe'  Aniore  avanti  gentil  core, 

Ne  gentil  core  avanti  Amor,  Natura: 

Within  the  gentle  heart  Love  shelters  him. 
As  girds  witliin  the  green  shade  of  the  grove. 

Before  the  gentle  lieart,  in  Nature's  scheme, 
Love  was  not,  nor  the  gentle  heart  ere  Love. 

D.    G.    RoSSETTI 

For  Dante  human  love,  such  love  as  his  for  Bea- 
trice, is  a  ray  of  God's  light;  and  this  it  is  impossible 
for  the  human  tongue  to  describe.  Nevertheless,  by 
means  of  poetr}^  theology,  and  philosophy,  it  may- 
be stammeringly  hinted  at ;  and  this  he  did  in  the 
Vita  Nuova.  As  to  the  fashion  and  workmanship  of 
the  little  book,  Dante  makes  use  of  familiar  methods. 
Visions  of  Love,  the  purifying  power  of  his  lady's 
salutation,  the  idea  of  a  "screen"  lady,  are  all  in 
conventional  use  in  Provencal  and  Italian  poetry ; 
and,  as  I  have  said,  the  whole  book  is  shaped  and 
colored  by  his  youthful  enthusiasm  for  lyric  poetry 
and  scholastic  philosophy,  but  still  out  of  the  pages 
of  this  record  of  his  new  life  shines  the  illumination 
of  a  soul  that  is  radiant  with  light  of  the  revelation 
of  God. 


CHAPTER    IV 

AFTER   THE  DEATH  OF  BEATRICE 

BEATRICE  PORTINARI  married  Simone  de' 
IJ.irdi,  a  member  of  a  great  Florentine  bank- 
ing house,  in  1287,  and  died  in  1290.  The  Vita 
Nuova  was  probably  written  a  year  or  two  after- 
wards, as  Dante  was  nearing  thirty.  During  this 
early  period  of  his  manhood,  covered  by  the  narra- 
tive in  the  J'ita  Nuova,  notwithstanding  the  great 
internal  drama  that  centered  around  Beatrice,  he 
led  the  ordinary  life  of  a  citizen  of  Florence  of  the 
educated  upper  class.  His  biographer,  Leonardo 
Bruni  (1369-1 1'44),  says:  "He  devoted  himself  not 
only  to  literature  but  to  the  other  liberal  studies, 
leaving  nothing  one  side  that  is  appropriate  to  make 
a  man  excel.  Nor,  for  all  this,  did  he  shut  himself  up 
in  an  easy  life,  or  keep  liimself  ajjart  from  the  world, 
but  he  lived  and  went  about  with  other  young  men 
of  his  age,  well-behaved,  alert,  and  good  at  every 
manly  exercise.  So  much  so  that  in  the  great  and 
memorable  battle  of  Cam))aldino,  a  mere  lad  but 
well  thought  of,  he  took  j)art  on  horseback  in  the 
front  rank  and  fought  vigorously,  and  ran  into  great 
danger.  .  .  .  After  the  battle  Dante  returned  home 
and  devoted   himself  to  his  studies   more   than  ever, 

34 


AFTER  THE  DEATH  OF  BEATRICE  35 

but  nevertheless  he  did  not  neglect  the  polite  society 
of  the  town.  It  is  extraordinary  that  though  he 
studied  continually^  nobody  would  have  thought 
that  he  was  a  student,  because  of  his  gay  manners 
(tisansa  lieta)." 

Of  this  lieta  usanza  we  get  a  glimpse  in  the  fol- 
lowing sonnet  to  Guido  Cavalcanti,  the  poet: 

Guide,  vorrei  che  tu  e  Lapo  ed  io 
Fossinio  presi  per  incantamento, 
E  inessi  ad  un  vascel,  ch'  ad  ogni  vento 
Per  mare  andasse  a  voler  vostro  e  mio; 

Sicche  fortuna,  od  altro  tempo  rio 
Non  ci  potesse  dare  impedimento, 
Anzi,  vivendo  sempre  in  un  talento, 
Di  stare  insieme  crescesse  11  disio. 

E  Monna  Vanna  e  Monna  Lagia  poi, 
Con  quella  ch'  e  sul  numero  del  trenta, 
Con  noi  ponesse  11  buono  incantatore: 

E  qulvi  raglonar  sempre  d'amore; 
E  clascuna  dl  lor  fosse  contenta, 
Siccome  lo  credo  che  sariamo  noi. 

Guldo,  I  wish  that  Lapo,i  thou,  and  I, 

Could  be  by  spells  convey'd,  as  it  were  now. 
Upon  a  barque,  with  all  the  winds  that  blow 

Across  all  seas  at  our  good  will  to  hie. 

So  no  mischance  nor  temper  of  the  sky 

Should  mar  our  course  with  spite  or  cruel   slip ; 
But  we,  observing  old  companionship. 

To  be  companions  still  should  long  thereby. 

And  Lady  Joan  and  Lady  Lagia.2 

1  Lapo  Gianni,  the  poet. 

2  Rossettl   wrote   "Beatrice"   following   a   reading   of   the 
Italian  text  now  no  longer  accepted. 


36  DANTE 

And  her  the  thirticthi  on  my  roll,  with  us 
Sliould  our  good  wizard  set,  o'er  seas  to  move 
And   not   to  talk  of  anything  but  love: 
And  they  three  ever  to  be  well  at  ease 

As  we  should  be,  I  think,  if  this  were  thus. 

D.    G.    RoSSETTI 

Boccaccio  says:  "His  mind  and  intelligence  grow- 
ing with  his  years,  he  did  not  turn  to  lucrative  studies 
to  which  everybody  hurries  nowadays,  but  with  a 
praiseworthy  love  of  enduring  fame  he  despised 
transitory  riches  and  gave  himself  over  to  acquire 
complete  knowledge  of  poetry  and  of  the  poetic  art. 
In  the  course  of  this  he  became  very  familiar  with 
Virgil,  Horace,  Ovid,  Statins,  and  every  other 
famous  poet;  he  not  only  took  pains  to  know  them, 
but  by  writing  poetry  in  an  elevated  style  he  strove 
to  imitate  them,  as  his  works  show." 

His  works  show  that  he  not  only  studied  poetry, 
but  all  books  of  philosophy  and  learning  that  he 
could  lay  hands  on:  volumes  of  Aristotle  that  had 
been  translated  into  Latin,  such  bits  of  Plato  as 
were  accessible,  scraps  of  Homer,  certain  works  of 
Cicero,  Seneca,  and  Boethius,  treatises  that  came 
from  the  Arabic  through  tlit;  Moors,  St.  Augustine, 
Albertus  Magnus,  and  Thomas  Aquinas.  He  began 
his  studies  while  quite  young.  He  says,  quoting 
Aristotle:  "All  men  by  nature  desire  to  know," 
and  no  doubt  after  the  death  of  Beatrice,  in  order 
to  distract  his  mind,  ht;  look  to  study  with  far 
greater  zeal. 

'  This  number,  "tliirtictli."  seems  to  be  the  "Screen  Lady." 


Al'TEK    THP:    death    OF    BEATRICE    37 

There  is  one  episode  concerning  his  life  related  in 
the  latter  part  of  the  J'ita  Nuova,  which,  if  we  accept 
Dante's  subsequent  explanation  of  it,  bears  upon  the 
matter  of  his  studies  at  this  time ;  his  explanation 
also  raises  the  whole  question  of  his  use  of  allegory, 
and  as  this  is  necessary  to  an  understanding  of  the 
Commedia,  it  is  worth  while  to  pause  over  it.  He  tells 
how,  a  year  after  Beatrice's  death,  he  was  standing, 
with  all  his  sorrow  depicted  in  his  face,  and  says : 
"I  lifted  mine  eyes  to  look;  and  then  perceived  a 
young  and  very  beautiful  lady,  who  was  gazing 
upon  me  from  a  window  with  a  gaze  full  of  pity, 
so  that  the  very  sum  of  pity  appeared  gathered 
together  in  her.  ...  It  happened  after  this,  that 
whensoever  I  was  seen  of  this  lady,  she  became  pale 
and  of  a  piteous  countenance,  as  though  it  had  been 
with  love ;  whereby  she  remembered  me  many  times 
of  my  own  most  noble  lady,  who  was  wont  to  be  of 
a  like  paleness.  And  I  know  that  often,  when  I  could 
not  weep  nor  in  any  way  give  ease  unto  mine  anguish, 
I  went  to  look  upon  this  lady,  who  seemed  to  bring 
the  tears  into  my  eyes  by  the  mere  sight  of  her. 
...  At  length,  by  the  constant  sight  of  this  lady, 
mine  eyes  began  to  be  gladdened  overmuch  with  her 
company ;  through  which  thing  many  times  I  had 
much  unrest,  and  rebuked  myself  as  a  base  person." 
And  a  little  further  on  he  says:  "The  sight  of  this 
lady  brought  me  into  so  unwonted  a  condition  that 
I  often  thought  of  her  as  of  one  too  dear  unto  me ; 
and  I  began  to  consider  her  thus:  'This  lady  is 
young,  beautiful,  gentle,  and  wise:  perchance  it  was 
Love   himself  who  set  her   in  my   path,   that   so   my 


38  DANTE 

life  might  find  peace.'  And  there  were  times  when 
I  thought  yet  more  fondly,  until  m}'  heart  consented 
unto  its  reasoning"   (D.  G.  Rossetti). 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  this  episode  is  liter- 
ally true,  and  that  Dante,  as  a  relief  from  sorrow, 
turned  toward  this  gentle  Lady  of  the  Window,  and 
transferred  some,  at  least,  of  his  devotion  from 
Beatrice  to  her.  Afterwards,  it  seems,  he  was  blamed 
by  his  friends  and  acquaintances  for  levity  and  in- 
constancy ;  and,  in  the  Convivio,  he  boldly  asserts 
that  the  Lady  of  the  Window  is  mere  allegory,  and 
that  he  meant  by  her  nothing  but  Philosophy.  It  is 
very  hard  for  modern  readers  to  accept  this  expla- 
nation; it  looks  as  if  Dante's  love,  and  perhaps  his 
pride,  had  revolted  at  his  own  inconstancy,  and  that 
he  had  succeeded  in  persuading  himself,  and  sought 
to  persuade  his  friends,  that  he  had  not  really  fallen 
in  love  with  anotlier  woman. 

But  in  judging  human  conduct  we  are  dealing 
with  subtle  mysteries  of  motives,  impulses,  feelings, 
thoughts  that  shift,  meet,  combine,  and  sejjarate 
like  clouds;  and  it  may  be  that  Dante  had  begun  to 
fix  his  thougiits  so  much  more  upon  the  divine  sym- 
bolism in  Beatrice  than  upon  her  earthly  person  that 
he  had  really  transferred  all  his  thoughts  to  that 
allegorical  )>lanc,  and  that  at  the  period  of  his  writ- 
ing the  gentle  Lady  of  the  Window  had  undergone  a 
similar  transformation.  In  those  times  almost  every- 
thing, esjjecially  where  the  deeper  emotions  were 
concerned,  was  interpreted  as  the  literal  expression 
of  some  spiritual  reality.  To-day  we  are  far  removed 
from    that    theory ;    nevertheless,    life    as    it    reveals 


AFTER    THE    DEATH    OF    BEATRICE    39 

itself  lias  too  many  "shoots  of  everlastingness"  for 
the  human  heart  to  accept  the  reports  of  our  senses 
as  literally  true.  Only  the  hard-and-fast  materialist 
accepts  the  sensual  presentation  of  the  external 
world  as  true  and  final.  Most  of  us  look  upon  the 
literal  presentation  of  life  with  a  reservation  and 
bow  our  heads  before  the  mystery. 

Dante  was  convinced  that  he  was  always  con- 
fronted by  an  allegory.  "The  things  which  are  seen 
are  temporal,  but  the  things  which  are  not  seen  are 
eternal"  (II  Cor.  iv,  18).  All  thoughtful  men  of  the 
Middle  Ages  accepted  life  as  a  parable,  and  bestirred 
themselves  to  find  out  the  meaning  behind  the  veil. 
Theologians  employed  this  method  in  the  inter- 
pretation of  Holy  Writ ;  St.  Paul  did  so,  and  so  do  all 
interpreters  from  St.  Paul  to  Swedenborg,  and  from 
Swedenborg  until  to-day.  In  Dante's  time  the  same 
method  was  employed  in  interpreting  the  classical 
poets.  Boccaccio  expresses  the  common  view:  "Holy 
Writ,  which  we  call  theology,  sometimes  under  the 
figure  of  a  story,  sometimes  under  that  of  a  vision, 
sometimes  under  the  guise  of  lamentation,  or  in  many 
another  way,  means  to  show  us  the  deep  mystery 
about  the  incarnation  of  the  Word,  His  life,  the 
things  that  happened  at  His  death,  His  triumphant 
resurrection,  His  miraculous  ascension,  and  about 
everything  He  did.  .  .  .  So,  poets  in  their  works, 
which  we  call  poetry,  by  the  fiction  of  different  gods, 
by  the  metamorphosis  of  men  into  idle  shapes,  and 
sometimes  by  light-minded  discoursing,  have  shown 
us  the  causes  of  things,  the  consequences  of  virtues 
and    vices,    what    we    ought    to    shun    and    what    to 


40  1)  A  N  T  E 

follow,  so  that  at  the  last  we  may  come,  by  doing 
M'liat  is  rigljt,  to  that  goal  whicli  they  [the  jjagaii 
poets]  wiio  did  not  riglitly  know  the  true  God  be- 
lieved to  be  the  height  of  salvation." 

Dante  also,  in  his  famous  letter  to  Can  Grande 
della  Scala,  lord  of  Verona,  which  serves  as  a  preface 
to  the  Commedia,  sets  forth  the  method  of  allegori- 
cal explanation,  and  gives  this  example  of  the  differ- 
ent ways  of  interpreting  a  verse  from  the  Bible: 
"  'When  Israel  went  out  of  Egypt,  the  House  of 
Jacob  from  a  ])eople  of  strange  language,  Judah  was 
his  sanctuary  and  Israel  his  dominion'  (Psalm  cxiv, 
1-2).  Should  we  consider  the  letter  only,  the  exit  of 
the  Children  of  Israel  from  Egypt  in  the  time  of 
Moses,  is  what  is  signified  to  us;  if  the  allegori/,  our 
redemj)tion  througli  Christ  is  signified  to  us ;  if  the 
moral  sense,  the  conversion  of  the  mind  from  the  grief 
and  misery  of  sin  to  the  state  of  grace  is  signified 
to  us;  if  the  anagogical,  the  exit  of  the  holy  soul 
from  the  slavery  of  this  corruption  to  tlie  liberty  of 
eternal  glory  is  signified.  And  although  these  mystic 
senses  are  called  by  various  names  they  may  all 
in  general  be  called  allegorical,  since  they  differ  from 
the  literal  or  historical." 

This  mode  of  inter))retation,  that  appears  so  fan- 
tastic to  us,  was  to  the  men  of  that  time  as  familiar 
and  natural  as  any  of  our  rules  of  deduction  sanc- 
tioned by  logic.  Dante  aj)))]ied  this  method,  not  as 
an  artist,  but  unconsciously  in  all  good  faith  to 
Beatrice  Portinari  and  to  the  gentle  Lady  of  the 
Window.  Literally  they  were  two  lovely  maidens ; 
allegorical ly  they  could  easily  become  Theology  and 


AFTER    THE    DEATH    OF    BEATUICE    41 

Philosophy.  So,  when  Dante  explains  to  us  that  the 
second  lady  is  in  fact  Pliilosophy,  he  may  in  very 
truth  have  dropped  from  his  mind  her  perishable 
part  and  be  concerned  soleh^  with  her  spiritual 
significance.  At  least,  he  says  so  himself:  "I,  who 
was  seeking  to  console  myself,  found  not  only  a  cure 
for  my  tears,  but  words  of  authors,  and  of  sciences, 
and  of  books,  pondering  upon  which  I  judged  that 
Philosophy,  who  was  the  lady  of  these  authors,  of 
these  sciences,  and  of  these  books,  was  a  thing  su- 
preme ;  and  I  conceived  her  after  the  fashion  of  a 
gentle  lady,  and  I  might  not  conceive  her  in  any 
attitude  save  that  of  compassion;  wherefore  the 
sense  for  truth  so  loved  to  gaze  upon  her  that  I 
could  scarce  turn  it  away  from  her;  and  impelled 
by  this  imagination  of  her,  I  began  to  go  where  she 
was  in  very  truth  revealed,  to  wit,  to  the  schools  of 
the  religious  orders,  and  to  the  disputations  of  the 
philosophers ;  so  that  in  a  short  time,  I  suppose  some 
thirty  months,  I  began  to  feel  so  much  of  her  sweet- 
ness that  the  love  of  her  expelled  and  destroyed 
every  other  thought"  (Conv.  II,  ch.  13). 

It  may  be  that  Dante,  under  the  influence  of  his 
studies  and  his  pride,  has  distorted  the  natural, 
literal  interpretation  of  the  Lady  of  the  Window, 
or,  it  may  be  that  the  original  passage  in  the  Fita 
Nuova  is  allegorical ;  in  either  view  the  episode  helps 
us  to  realize  how  completely  the  habit  of  accepting 
life  as  a  mere  colored  veil  concealing  the  reality  be- 
hind had  possession  of  Dante,  and  thereby  helps  us 
to  understand  the  Commedia. 

But,  whether  or  no  his  attentions   to  the  I.ady  of 


42  DANTE 

the  Window  were  tinged  with  disloyalty  to  Beatrice, 
sonic  far  more  serious  infidelity  to  her  memory  took 
place  in  these  years.  Just  what  this  falling  away 
from  licr  ideals  was,  we  can  only  infer  from  what  he 
and  others  say;  but  it  was  black  enough  to  give  him 
the  bitter,  poignant  consciousness  of  sin  that  is 
shown  in  the  Inferno.  It  seems  most  likely  that 
(apart  from  the  pervading  sin  of  pride)   Dante  was 

nc'l  dilctto  dclla  cariie  involto, 
in  the  ))leasure.s  of  the  flesh  enmeshed. 

The  testimony  to  this  sin  is  very  strong.  Guido 
Cavalcanti,  in  a  sonnet  to  Dante,  applies  the  words 
"base"  and  "abject"  to  Dante's  way  of  life.  Boc- 
caccio says:  "With  such  great  virtue,  with  so  much 
learning,  as  has  been  shown  to  belong  to  this  won- 
drous poet,  sensuality  found  too  great  a  jilace,  not 
only  in  his  youthful  years  but  also  in  his  maturity." 
And,  at  this  period  of  his  life,  Forese  Donati,  a  glut- 
tonous, dissolute  fellow  {Purg.  XXIII),  was  his 
boon  companion.  There  still  exist  half  a  dozen 
ribald  sonnets,  in  which  the  two  friends  revile  one 
another  for  discreditable  conduct  in  a  very  unedi- 
fying  manner.  And — though  at  a  later  period — 
Dante  also  wrote  several  odes  to  a  young  woman  with 
a  heart,  lie  says,  as  hard  as  stone,  but  who  is  very 
beautiful : 

(^uaiid"   ella   ha   in    testa    una    frhirlauda    d'erha, 
true  dclla  nicntc   nostra  opni   altra   donna; 
perchfc  si  niiscliia  il  crespo  giallo  e'l  vcrde 
si  bel,  ch'  Amor  vi  vicne  a  stare  all'  ombra. 


AFTER    THE    DEATH    OF    BEATRICE    43 

When  on  her  head  she  wears  a  garland  wrought  of  leaves 
She  draws  from  out  my  mind  all  women  else; 
The  green  so  sweetly  mingles  with  her  golden  locks, 
That  I-ove  himself  would  nestle  in  their  shade. 

[Canzone    I] 

These  odes  express  a  love  quite  other  than  that 
which  he  felt  for  Beatrice.  In  addition  to  all  this, 
in  the  Purcjatorio,  after  he  has  ascended  to  the  top 
of  the  Mount  of  Purgatory,  Dante  is  obliged  to  pass 
through  the  fire  that  hedges  off  the  Earthly  Paradise 
from  the  last  circle  of  Purgatory,  and  also,  it  seems, 
purifies  sins  of  the  flesh.  It  is  obvious  that  this  narra- 
tive reveals  an  inner  drama. 

After  he  has  passed  the  fire  and  stands  in  the 
presence  of  Beatrice,  he  feels  himself  dissolve  in 
shame.  She  rebukes  him,  before  a  multitude  of  holy 
spirits,  sternly,  almost  cruelly,  so  that  his  sorrow 
shall  equal  his  sin  (Pnrg.  XXX,  108),  and  says: 

Questi  fu  tal  nella  sua  vita  nuova 

virtualmente,  ch'  ogni  ahito  destro 

fatto  avrebbe  in  lui  mlrahil  prova. 
Ma  tanto  piu  maligno  e  piu  silvestro 

si  fa  il  terren  col  mal  seme  e  non  colto, 

quant'  egll  ha  piu  del  buon  vigor  terrestro. 
Alcun  tempo  il  sostenni  col  mio  volto; 

mostrando  gli  occhi  giovinctti  a  lui, 

meco  il  menava  in  dritta  parte  volto. 
Si  tosto  come  in  su  la  soglia  fui 

di  mia  seconda  etade,  e  mutai  vita, 

questi  si  tolse  a  me,  a  diessi  altrui. 
Quando  di  carne  a  splrto  era  salita, 

e  l)cllczza  e  virtii  cresciuta  m'  era, 

fu'  io  a  lui  men  cara  e  men  gradita; 
e  volse  i  pass!  suoi  per  via  non  vera, 

imagini  di  ben  seguendo  false, 
.che  nulla  promission  rendono  intera. 


44  I)  A  N  T  E 

Ne  inipetrare  spirazion  mi  valse, 

con  Ic  quali  ed  in  sogno  cd  altriinenti 
lo  rivocai;  si  poco  a  lui  ne  calse. 

Tanto  gill  cadde,  che  tutti  argoinenti 
alia  salute  sua  eran  giii  corti, 
fuor  che  niostrargli  le  i)erdute  genti. 

Per  questo  visitai  I'uscio  dei  inorti, 
ed  a  colui  che  Tha  quassii  condotto 
li   i^reghi   niiei,  ])iangendo,   furon   porti. 

Alto  fato  di  Dio  sarcbbe   rotto, 
sc  Lete  si  passasse,  e  tal  vivanda 
fosse  gustata  senza   alcuno  scotto 

(li  )>cnliiiicnto  che  lagrinie  spanda. 

This  man  in  his  New  Life  was  able  to  be  such 
That  every  beneficial  aptitude 
Would  have  wrought  wonderful  effects  in  him. 

Hut  so  much  the  more  malignant  and  more  wild 
The  ground  becomes  with  evil  seeded,  and  unplowcd, 
According  as  it  has  more  vigorous  soil. 

Awhile  I,  l)y  my  presence,  held  him  uj); 
And  looking  on  him  with  my  maiden  eyes 
I   took  him  with  me  turned  to   righteousness. 

But  soon  as  I  had  reached  a  later  time 
Of  womanhood  and  quitted  mortal  life. 
Me  he  forsook  and  unto  others  turned. 

When   1   from   flesh  to  si)irit  had  uprisen 

Witli  I)oth  my  beauty  and  my  worth  increased, 
To  him   I   was  less  jjlcasing  and  less  dear; 

He  bent  his  footsteps  by  a  path  not  true, 
To  chase  deceitful  images  of  good 
That  never  keep  their  promise  honestly. 

Nor  did  tlic  spiritual  help   I  gave 

Avail,  with  which  in  dreams  and  other  ways 
I  called  him  l)ack;  so  little  did  he  heed. 

He  fell  so  low,  that  all  the  arguments  for 
His  salvation's  sake  were  found  too  scant, 
Except  the  sight  of  the  lost  souls  in  hell. 


AFTER  THE  DEATH  OF  BEATRICE  45 

Therefore,  I   sought  the  threshold  of  tlie  dead, 

And  weeping  made  petition  unto  him 

Who  has  conducted  this  man  up  to  here. 
The  high  decree  of  God  would  broken  be 

If  Lethe  he  should  cross  and  taste  our  fruit. 

And  pay  no  penitential  scot  of  tears. 

Purg.  XXX,   115-145 

Dante   admits    that    all    she   says    is    true    and   bursts 
into  a  torrent  of  tears ;  and  she  goes  on : 

Per  entro  i  miei  disiri, 
che  ti  menavano  ad  amar  lo  bene 
di  la  dal  qual  non  e  a  che  s'  aspiri, 

quai  fossi  attraversati  o  quai  catene 
trovasti,  per  che  del  passare  innanzi 
dovessiti  cosi   spogliar  la  .s])ene? 

E  quali   agevolezze  o  quali  avanzi 
nella  fronte  degli  altri  si  mostraro, 
per  che  dovessi  lor  passeggiare  anzi? 

Within  your  yearnings  up  toward  me. 
That  then  were  leading  you  to  love  the  good 
Which  is  the  final  goal  to  be  aspired  to, 
What  pitfalls  in  your  way,  what  chains 

Found  you?  that  made  you  lay  aside  your  hope 
Of  going  on;  or  what  sweet  winsomeness 
Or  promises  upon  the  brow  of  others  were  there  shown 
That  you  to  meet  them  needs  must  take  your  way? 

Pur(/.  XXXI,  2:3-30 

Dante,  still  weeping,  replies: 

Le  presenti  cose 
col  falso  lor  piacer   volser  miei  passi, 
tosto  che  il  vostro  viso  si  nascose. 

Immediate  things 
Witii  their  deceitful  i)leasures  turned  my  steps 
Aside,  soon  as  your  face  was  hid. 

lb.  34-37 


46  DANTE 

Beatrice  grants  that  confession  and  repentance  miti- 
gate tile   sin,   but   bids   him   stop   weeping   and   listen 

to  her  rebuke: 

pcrchc"  altr.i   volta 
udeiulo  le  Sirene  sic  piu  forte 

so    that    another    time 
Hearing  the  Sirens  thou  niayest  be  more  strong. 

//;.  44-45 

Then  slie  says, — and  the  reader  must  remember  tliat 
slie    has    been   transmuted   into   Divine   Wisdom: 

Mai  non  t'  appresent6  natura  o  arte 

placer,  quanto  le  belle  membra  in  eh'  io 
rinchiusa  fui,  e  sono  in  terra  sparte; 

e  se  il  sommo  piacer  si  ti  fallio 

per  la  una  morte,  qual  cosa  mortale 
dovea  poi  trarre  te  nel  suo  disio? 

Ben  ti  dovevi,  ])er  lo  primo  strale 
delle  cose  fallaei,  levar  suso 
di  retro  a  me  che  non  era  piu  tale. 

Non  ti  dovean  gravar  le  penne  in  giuso, 
ad  aspettar  piu  colpi,  o  pargoletta, 
o  altra  vanita  con  si  breve  uso. 

Never  did  nature,  nor  did  art,  to  you 

Pleasure  present,  so  great  as  the  fair  limbs 

In  wliieli  I  was  enclosed,  and  now  are  one  with  earth; 
And  wlien  this  greatest  i)lcasure  l)y  my  death 

Came  to  an  end,  what  mortal  thing 

Ouglit  then  to  lure  you  by  a  love  of  it? 
Uather  you  should,  at  the  first  arrow  of 

Deceitful    things,   have   mounted    upward   after   me 

W  h{»  was  no  longer  of  tlieir  world. 
No  girl,  nor  vain  thing  else   (so  quick  to  pass) 

Sliould  have  l)een  able  to  weigh  down  your  wings, 

To   wait   for   further  shots. 

lb.  49-()0 


AFTER  THE  DEATH  OF  BEATRICE  47 

In  these  verses  not  only  does  Divine  Wisdom  re- 
buke liuman  frailty  but  also  Beatrice,  the  woman, 
rebukes  her  erring  lover;  and  the  reproof  strengthens 
the  hypothesis  that  Dante  has  been  false  to  a  human, 
as  well  as  to  a  divine,  loyalty.  But  ^Beatrice's  last 
words  ultra  vanita  (1.  60)  indicate  other  failings ;  and 
this,  too,  is  vaguely  confirmed  by  her  further  words; 

e  veggi  vostra  via  dalla  divina 
distar  cotanto,  quanto  si  discorda 
da  terra  il  ciel  che  piu  alto  festina. 

And  see,  your  way  is  distant  from  the  way 
Divine  as  far,  as  is  the  highest  heaven 
That  wliirls  above  distant  from  earth. 

lb.    XXXIII,   88-90 

Therefore,  according  to  Beatrice,  Dante's  path  had 
led  him  directly  away  from  God,  into  the  region 
where  God  is  not,  which  is  sin,  although  she  gives 
no  hint  of  its  nature.  All  this  is  autobiographical,  and 
will  help  us  to  understand  Dante's  bitter  conscious- 
ness of  sin,  and  the  whole  scheme  of  the  Commedia. 


C  H  A  P  T  K  K    V 

EXILE 

OY  outward  events  in  Dante's  life  after  he 
wrote  tlie  I'lta  Nuova,  we  know  little.  He 
married  a  Florentine  lady,  Gemma  Donati, 
and  had  four  children,  two  boys  and  two  girls.  He 
took  part  in  tlie  public  affairs  of  the  city,  and  became 
a  member  of  the  more  important  councils.  He  quali- 
fied himself  for  office,  as  was  necessary  under  a  recent 
democratic  law,  by  enrolling  in  a  guild;  as  he  had 
neitlier  a  i)rofession  nor  a  trade,  he  chose  the  guild  of 
Physicians  and  Apothecaries,  to  which  it  seems  men 
of  letters  and  artists  naturally  turned.  In  the  year 
1300  he  was  elected  one  of  the  six  j^riors,  a  board 
wliich  constituted  the  sujjremc  executive  body  in  the 
state.  "All  the  ills  and  misfortunes  tliat  befell  me," 
he  wrote,  "had  their  cause  and  origin  in  the  unlucky 
sessions  of  my  priorate"  (Bruni).  It  was  a  tumultu- 
ous time  in  Florence;  political  j)assions  rose  to  fight- 
ing heat,  and  the  two  parties  that  divided  the  city, 
known  as  the  Neri  (Blacks)  and  the  Bianchi 
C Whites),  came  to  blows.  Tlie  priors,  trying  to  act 
with  impartiality,  banislicd  the  chiefs  of  both  fac- 
tions. One  of  these  was  Dante's  particular  friend. 
Ciuido    Cavalcanti,    of   the    Bianchi    faction.    But   the 

48 


EXILE  49 

efforts  of  the  priors  to  establisli  peace,  with  justice  to 
both  parties,  were  in  vain;  outside  powers,  too  mighty 
to  be  resisted,  tipped  the  scales.  Pope  Boniface  VTII, 
scheming  to  get  the  city  in  his  clutches,  made  an 
unscrupulous  bargain  with  the  Neri,  and  sent  a 
blackguardly  French  prince,  Charles  of  Valois,  with 
a  body  of  men-at-arms,  to  do  what  he  called  bring- 
ing about  peace  and  order.  Prince  Charles  promptly 
put  the  Neri  in  power;  and  they,  with  equal  prompti- 
tude, treated  P'lorence  like  a  conquered  city  and 
proscribed  the  principal  men  of  the  Bianchi  faction. 
Dante's  patriotic  opposition  to  the  Pope  had  marked 
him  for  vengeance;  he  was  summoned  to  trial  on 
trumped-up  charges  of  corruption  and  of  actions 
hostile  to  the  Pope,  as  if  his  duty  had  been  to  the 
Pope  and  not  to  his  city.  He  did  not  obey  the  sum- 
mons, and  was  condemned  to  exile  for  two  years,  to 
disfranchisement  and  to  a  fine,  and  if  the  fine  were 
not  paid  within  three  days,  then  to  the  forfeiture  of 
all  his  property.  A  second  decree,  six  weeks  later, 
condemned  him  to  be  burned  alive  (January  and 
March,  1300). 

So,  leading  the  life  of  the  world  brought  Dante  to 
his  worldly  undoing.  Banished  from  home,  his  prop- 
erty confiscated,  condemned  to  leave  his  wife,  his 
little  children,  his  friends,  the  beautiful  city  of  his 
youth  and  of  his  forefathers,  which  he  loved  so 
passionately,  and  to  roam  poor,  despised,  begging 
alms  at  the  courts  of  princes, — this,  as  the  world 
judges,  was  the  very  failure  of  failures.  The  passages 
in  which  he  speaks  of  his  exile  are  fraught  Avith 
pathos : 


60  D  A  N  T  E 

Tu  lascerai  ogni  cosa  diletta 

piu   caramcnte,  e   questo  e  quello   strale 
che  Tarco  dello  esilio  pria  saetta. 

Tu  ]irovcrai  si  come  sa  di  sale 

lo  pane  altrui,  e  com'  e  duro  calle 

lo  scendere  e  il  salir  per  I'altrui  scale. 

Thou  Shalt  leave  everything  most  dearly  loved; 
This  is  the  dart,  the  bow  of  exile  first  shall  shoot. 

And  thou  shalt  ])rove  how  salt  the  taste 
Of  others'  bread,  and  what  a  rugged  ])atli 
Descending  and  ascending  others'  stairs. 

Par.  XVII,  5o-G0 

And  in  tl)e  Convivio  he  says: 

"Since  it  was  the  pleasure  of  the  citizens  of  the 
most  beauteous  and  the  most  famous  daughter  of 
Rome,  Florence,  to  cast  me  forth  from  her  most 
sweet  bosom  (wherein  I  was  born  and  nurtured  until 
the  culmination  of  my  life,  wherein  with  their  good 
leave  I  long  with  all  my  heart  to  repose  my  wearied 
mind  and  end  the  time  which  is  granted  me),  through 
well-nigh  all  the  regions  whereto  this  tongue  [the 
Italian  language]  extends,  a  wanderer,  almost  a 
beggar,  have  I  paced,  revealing,  against  my  will,  the 
wound  of  fortune,  which  is  often  wont  to  be  unjustly 
imputed  to  liim  who  is  wounded.  Verily  have  I  been 
a  ship  without  sail  and  without  helm,  drifted  upon 
divers  ports  and  straits  and  shores  by  the  dry  wind 
that  grievous  i)Overty  exhales"  (First  Treatise,  eh, 
III,  Temple  Classics). 

Dante  did  not  know,  he  could  not  know,  as  he 
drifted  like  a  hulk  over  that  tempestuous  sea,  that, 
next  to   Beatrice  exile  would  be  his  truest  guide  to 


EXILE  51 

help  him  reach  the  "glorious  haven"  that  Brunetto 
Latini  had  foreseen  for  him.  Exile  detached  his 
heart  from  vanities  that  had  assailed  his  attention 
and  held  it  in  servitude.  Exile  taught  him  the  differ- 
ence between  things  that  pass  and  things  that  abide; 
exile  turned  his  thoughts  from  the  outward  world 
in  upon  himself.  He  learned,  as  few  have  learned, 
how 

The  mind  is  its  own  place  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  heaven  of  hell,  a  hell  of  heaven. 

In  exile,  as  he  wandered  about,  he  learned  that  the 
confusion  in  I'lorence  was  matched  by  the  confusion 
in  all  Italy;  but  he  also  learned  that  the  bitterness 
in  political  confusion  is  due  not  to  the  tumult  that 
rages  without,  but  to  the  shaken  equilibrium  of  the 
soul  within.  In  exile  he  acquired  the  painful  knowl- 
edge that  he  himself  had  wrought  the  disorder  in  liis 
own  heart,  in  that,  captivated  by  the  false  glitter  of 
appearances,  he  had  followed  jDaths  that  lead  away 
from  God;  but  he  acquired  also  the  comforting 
knowledge  that  in  liis  heart  he  could  find  shelter 
from  all  disorder,  tlie  peace  that  the  world  cannot 
give,  tlie  truth  that  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  is 
within  us.  This  is  the  deep  doctrine  that  lies  at  the 
heart  of  Christianity. 

There  are  various  ways  of  finding  tlie  hidden  God 
within.  St.  Jolin  of  the  Cross  teaches  us  one  way: 
"God  abides  in  the  very  innermost  depths  of  the 
soul,  and  there  He  hides.  So  the  soul  that  would  find 
Him  must  issue  forth  by  means  of  affection  and  of 
will  from  all  that  is  created,  and  enter  into  herself 
in  a  musing  so  profound  that   all   creation   becomes 


52  DANTE 

for  her  as  if  it  were  not.  That  is  why  St.  Augustine 
says:  'I  despatched  my  outward  senses^  as  scouts, 
to  seek  Thee,  but  I  did  not  find  Thee,  for  I  sought 
unwisely.  For  now  I  see,  God,  my  light,  that  hast 
enlightened  me,  that  I  sought  Thee  unwisely  by  my 
scouts,  because  Thou  art  within  me.'  So,  indeed, 
God  is  liidden  in  the  soul,  and  therein  must  the  re- 
pentant, in  contemplation,  seek  it  with  love,  crying 
'Where  art  Thou  hid.'*'  "  (Canticle  of  the  Spirit). 

And  Meister  Eckhardt  has  his  way,  which  he  tells 
in  this  dialogue: 

Qu.     What  sort  of  man  are  you? 
Ans.     I  am  a  king. 

Qu.     Where  is  your  kingdom? 
yins.     My  soul  is  my  kingdom,  for  I  can  so  rule  my  senses 
inward  and  outward  that  all  the  desires  and  j)(>wers 
of  my   soul   are   in   subjection,   and   this   kingdom   is 
greater  than  a  kingdom  on  earth. 
Qu.     What  brought  you  to  this  perfection? 
Ans.     My   silence,   my   high   thoughts,   and   my   imion   with 
God.  For  I  could  not  rest  in  anything  that  was  less 
than  God.  Now  I  have  found  God;  and  in  God  have 
eternal  rest  and  peace.i 

Others  attain  to  this  knowledge  by  voluntary 
renunciation,  by  vows  of  chastity  and  obedience,  by 
giving  up  ambition  and  all  the  things  of  this  world. 
But  the  ways  of  contemplation,  of  voluntary  pov- 
erty, of  renunciation  were  not  ways  natural  to  the 
proud  aristocrat  Dante.  Some  other  way  had  to  be 
opened  to  him.  Exile  for  him  was,  next  to  Beatrice, 
the  highest  manifestation  of  God's  grace.  Had  it 
not   been    for   exile,    Dante   would    not   have   learned 

1  Quoted  in  Mysticiim,  by  Evelyn   Underhill,  p.  2.53. 


EXILE  53 

that  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  is  within,  and  would 
have  floundered  about  seeking  for  the  higliest  good 
in  a  return  to  Florence  and  a  laurel  crown  in  the 
Baptistery  of  San  Giovanni,  and  the  Divine  Comedy 
would  not  have  been  written.  He  wandered  in  many 
places  suffering  contumely;  but  he  perceived  at 
last  that  the  drama  of  Emperor  and  Pope,  of  rival 
barons,  of  proud  cities,  was  but  as  a  play  of  shadows 
cast  upon  a  screen  comj^ared  with  the  drama  in  the 
depths  of  his  own  soul. 

As  to  where  Dante  wandered  to,  there  are  some 
scanty  records,  scattered  about  in  archives,  that 
prove  Dante  to  have  been  in  one  or  two  places  on 
such  and  such  a  date ;  and  there  are  in  the  Commedia 
many  descriptions  of  places  and  allusions  to  persons 
which  enable  the  painstaking  student  to  follow 
Dante's  footsteps  in  at  least  a  part  of  his  wanderings. 
At  first  he  joined  a  company  of  exiles,  most  of  whom 
belonged  to  the  old  aristocratic  Ghibelline  faction 
that  had  been  expelled  from  Florence  thirty  or  forty 
years  before,  and  with  them  he  plotted  to  return  by 
force  of  arms;  but  the  attempt  failed,  and  Dante, 
disgusted  with  his  associates,  went  his  own  way  alone. 
He  found  refuge  and  hospitality  in  Verona,  at  the 
court  of  the  della  Scala ;  later  he  became  the  guest  of 
the  Malaspina  family,  in  the  northwest  of  Tuscany. 
Afterwards  he  went  to  the  upper  waters  of  the  Arno, 
to  Bologna,  to  Lucca,  and  elsewhere,  in  different 
parts  of  Lombardy  and  Tuscany. 

All  the  time  he  nursed  his  passionate  longing  to 
return  to  Florence,  and  his  hopes  rose  high  several 
times.  At  one  period  he  thought  that  the  governors 


54  DANTE 

of  the  city  would  have  a  change  of  heart,  and  he 
wrote  letters  to  various  citizens  to  use  their  in- 
fluence on  his  behalf,  but  all  in  vain.  Then  suddenly 
hope  flared  up  like  a  bonfire.  For  over  fifty  years  no 
Emperor  had  come  to  Italy.  Rudolph  of  Hapsburg 
(1273-1291)  and  his  successors  had  concerned  them- 
selves only  with  German  affairs  and  their  own  for- 
tunes; but  in  1308  a  new  Emiseror  was  elected, 
Henry  VII,  who  proclaimed  that  he  would  not  neglect 
his  duty  to  Italy  as  his  ])redecessors  had  done;  and 
after  his  coronation  Henry  announced  his  intention 
of  crossing  the  Alps  and  of  coming  to  Italy.  Dante 
was  almost  beside  himself.  He  wrote  exultingly  one 
of  his  strange,  mediaeval  letters,  directed  to  the 
Princes  of  Italy:  "Lo,  now  is  the  acceptable  time 
wherein  arise  the  signs  of  consolation  and  peace. 
For  a  new  day  beginneth  to  glow,  showing  forth  the 
dawn  which  is  even  now  dissipating  the  darkness  of 
our  long  calamity;  and  already  the  breezes  of  the 
east  begin  to  blow,  the  lij^s  of  heaven  glow  red,  and 
confirm  the  auspices  of  the  nations  with  a  caressing 
calm.  And  we,  too,  shall  see  the  looked-for  joy,  we 
who  have  kept  vigil  through  the  long  night  in  the 
desert.  For  peace-bringing  Titan  shall  arise,  and 
Justice  .  .  .  will  revive  again  so  soon  as  he  shall 
brandish  his  first  ray.  All  they  who  hunger  and 
thirst  shall  be  satisfied  in  the  ]it!;ht  of  in's  rays,  and 
they  who  love  iniquity  shall  be  confounded  before 
his  shining  face,  ior  the  strong  lion  of  the  tribe 
of  Judah  [Clirist]  hath  lifted  up  his  merciful  ears, 
and,  taking  })ity  on  the  wail  of  universal  captivity, 
hath  raised  up  a  second  Moses  to  snatch  his  people 


EXILE  55 

from  the  burdens  of  the  Egyptians,  leading  them 
to  a  land  that  floweth  with  milk  and  honey.  .  .  . 
Awake  then  all  ye  dwellers  in  Italy  and  arise  before 
your  king  since  ye  are  destined  not  only  to  obey  his 
command,  but,  as  free-born  children,  to  follow  his 
guidance"    (Epistola  V,  Temple  Classics). 

But  the  Guelfs  of  Italy  did  not  hearken  to  Dante; 
they  stood  apart,  hostile,  and  the  city  of  Florence 
put  herself  at  the  head  of  the  opposition.  At  this, 
Dante  wrote  a  letter  of  warning  to  the  Plorentines ; 
but  they  took  no  notice  of  him;  on  the  contrary,  they 
strengthened  their  fortifications  and  prepared  for  de- 
fense. Then  Dante,  in  a  fury,  wrote  to  the  Emperor 
(who,  in  Dante's  view^  was  wasting  his  strength 
against  minor  enemies  in  Lombardy),  a  fiery  letter 
in  which  he  denounced  the  city  and  its  leaders: 

"Dost  thou  not  know,  most  excellent  of  jirinces, 
and  from  the  watch  tower  of  highest  exaltation  dost 
thou  not  perceive  where  the  fox  of  this  stench  skulks 
in  safety  from  the  hunters?  For  the  culjirit  drinketh 
not  of  the  headlong  Po,  nor  of  thy  Tiber,  but  her 
jaws  do  ever  pollute  the  streams  of  the  torrent  of 
Arno;  and  (knowest  thou  not  perchance?)  this  dire 
plague  is  named  Florence.  She  is  the  viper  that  turns 
upon  the  entrails  of  her  mother.  She  is  the  sick  sheep 
that  infects  the  flock  of  her  lord  with  her  contagion. 
...  In  truth,  with  the  fierceness  of  a  viper  she  is 
striving  to  rend  her  mother,  for  slie  hath  sharpened 
the  horns  of  rebellion  against  Rome,  who  created  her 
in  her  image  and  after  her  likeness"  (Epistola  VII, 
Temple  Classics). 

Henry  VII  did  his  best.  He  strove  gallantly  to  re- 


56  I)  ANTE 

store  the  power  of  the  Empire  in  Italy,  but  he  was 
striving  to  restore  what  Time  had  abolislied;  his 
peaceful  efforts,  and  his  warlike  efforts  were  alike 
unavailing.  He  marched  here  and  there,  and  laid 
siege  to  Florence,  but  all  in  vain.  Suddenly  he  fell 
ill  of  a  fever  and  died,  and  with  him  perished  the  last 
hope  of  bringing  the  Holy  Roman  Empire  back  to 
life,  and  Dante's  last  hope  of  returning  to  Florence 
by  means  of  force. 

An  opportunity  of  recall,  however,  was  offered 
to  him.  Exiles  such  as  he  were  granted  a  pardon  upon 
condition  that  they  should  pay  a  fine  and  present 
themselves  according  to  the  usage  prescribed  for 
pardoned  criminals,  before  the  altar  in  the  Baptis- 
tery, confess  their  wrongdoing  and  abase  themselves. 
Some  kinsman,  a  priest  apparently,  wrote  him  of  this 
ungenerous  offer  of  clemency.  We  have  Dante's 
letter  in  reply:  "With  grateful  mind  and  close  atten- 
tion did  I  perceive  from  your  letter,  received  with 
due  reverence  and  affection,  how  deeply  you  have 
my  recall  at  heart.  And  thereby  you  have  bound  me 
under  the  closer  obligation  because  it  so  rarely 
chanceth  that  exiles  find  friends.  But  I  go  on  to 
answer  the  contents  of  it.  And  if  my  answer  be  not 
such  as  ])erchance  the  pusillanimity  of  certain  might 
seek,  I  would  beg  you,  in  all  affection,  to  winnow  it 
in  your  judgment  before  you  pronounce  upon  it. 

"This,  then,  is  what  has  been  indicated  to  me  by 
the  letters  of  your  nephew  and  mine,  and  many 
other  friends,  as  to  the  decree  recently  passed  in 
Florence  concerning  the  pardon  of  the  exiles:  That 
if  I  will  consent  to  pay  a  certain  sura  of  money,  and 


E  X  I  I-  E  57 

be  willing  to  bear  the  brand  of  oblation,  I  may  be 
absolved  and  ma}^  return  at  once.  Wherein  are  two 
things  ridiculous  and  ill-advised,  O  father !  I  say  ill- 
advised  by  those  who  have  expressed  them;  for  your 
letter,  more  discreetly  and  advisedly  drawn  up^  con- 
tained no  hint  of  them. 

"Is  this  the  glorious  recall  whereby  Dante  Ali- 
ghieri  is  summoned  back  to  his  country  after  suffer- 
ing well-nigli  fifteen  years  of  exile?  Is  this  the  re- 
ward of  innocence  manifest  to  all  the  world,  of 
unbroken  sweat  and  toil  in  study.''  Far  be  it  from  the 
disciple  of  philosophy,  this  abject-self-abasement 
of  a  soul  of  clay  !  To  allow  himself  to  be  presented  at 
the  altar,  as  a  prisoner  after  the  fashion  of  .  .  .  some 
infamous  wretch.  Far  be  it  from  the  preacher  of 
justice,  when  he  hath  suffered  a  wrong,  to  pay  his 
coin  to  them  that  inflicted  it  as  though  they  had  de- 
served well  of  him. 

"Not  this  the  way  of  return  to  my  country,  O  my 
father!  But  if  another  may  hereafter  be  found  by  you 
or  any  other,  which  hurts  not  Dante's  fair  fame  and 
honour,  that  will  I  accept  with  no  lagging  feet.  If  no 
such  path  leads  back  to  Florence,  then  will  I  never 
enter  Florence  more.  What  then  ?  ]\Iay  I  not  gaze 
upon  the  mirror  of  the  sun  and  stars  wherever  I  may 
be?  Can  I  not  ponder  on  the  sweetest  truths  wherever 
I  may  be  beneath  the  heaven,  but  I  must  first  make 
me  inglorious,  nay  infamous,  before  the  people  and 
the  state  of  Florence?  Nor  shall  I  lack  for  bread" 
(Epistola  IX,  Temple  Classics). 

There  is  another  reference  to  his  exile  contained  in 
what  is  known  as  Fra  Ilario's  letter.  This  letter  has 


58  DANTE 

usually  been  considered  a  forgery;  and  it  certainly 
contains  matter  that  seems  a  jumble  of  errors. 
Nevertheless  it  goes  back  to  the  time  of  Boccaccio, 
and,  at  least  in  this  one  passage^  gives  what  might 
well  have  been  an  account  of  a  real  meeting  between 
a  friar  on  a  remote  mountain  and  this  lonely  wan- 
derer. The  writer  describes  a  visit  of  Dante's  to  his 
monastery  in  the  Apennines:  "Hither  he  came, 
passing  through  the  diocese  of  Luni,  moved  either 
by  the  religion  of  the  place  or  by  some  other  feeling. 
And  seeing  him  as  yet  unknown  to  me  and  to  all  my 
brethren,  I  questioned  him  of  his  wishings  and  his 
seekings  there.  He  moved  not ;  but  stood  silently  con- 
templating the  columns  and  arches  of  the  cloister. 
And  again  I  asked  him  what  he  wished  and  whom  he 
souglit.  Then,  slowly  turning  his  head,  and  looking 
at  the  friars  and  at  me,  he  answered  'Peace!'" 
(Longfellow's  Illustrations,  etc.). 

So  he  wandered  on,  the  proud,  lonely,  passionate 
man.  He  could  not  tell  that  the  seeds  which  Beatrice 
had  sown  in  his  heart  depended  upon  loneliness, 
bitterness  of  soul,  and  degradation  in  the  eyes  of 
men,  for  their  ri])ening.  Or  did  he,  with  the  confidence 
of  genius  that  resists  and  overcomes  all  the  buffetings 
of  adverse  circumstances,  feel  assured  that,  come 
good,  come  ill,  in  either  event  he  should  prove  his 
soul,  and  write  concerning  Beatrice  "what  had  not 
before  been  written  of  any  woman"  ?  In  ])is  letter  to 
the  Princes  of  Italy  he  said:  "It  is  not  always  we 
who  act.  Nay  sometimes  we  are  God's  instruments, 
and  human  wills,  wliich  are  by  nature  free,  are 
sometimes   driven    without   touch   of   lower   affection. 


EXILE  -'59 

submissive  to  the  eternal  will,  serving  it  often  though 
they  know  it  not"   (Epistola  V). 

During  these  years,  chiefly  (it  seems)  during  tlie 
last  ten  years  of  his  life,  following  Beatrice  as  a  star, 
and  taught  in  the  school  of  Exile,  Dante  composed 
the  Commedia,  the  great  poem  upon  which  later 
generations  have  conferred  the  epithet  Divine. 


C  II  A  P  T  K  U     V  I 

INTELLECTUA L   PREP A RA TION 

BEATRICE  was  the  guiding  star  tliat  directed 
Dante  towards  God,  and  Exile  was  the  cruel 
yet  kindly  power  that  detached  him  from 
false  values  of  life.  Beatrice  was  to  him  what  the 
Church  is  to  the  devout  Catholic,  what  the  Bible  is 
to  the  strict  Protestant,  a  light  emanating  from  the 
True  Light  that  lighteth  the  world.  Exile  was  to 
him  what  Poverty  was  to  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  not 
merely  detachment  from  riches,  luxury,  material 
possessions,  but  a  spiritual  freedom;  it  unbound  the 
cords  that  tied  him  to  the  world,  it  freed  his  soul 
from  the  hindrances  of  lesser  desires.  Both  Beatrice 
and  Exile  were  vouchsafed  to  him,  as  it  were,  by 
the  grace  of  God,  that  he  might  be  able  to  attain  his 
full  spiritual  stature  and  strength,  and  reveal  to 
men,  in  the  appropriate  language  of  noblest  poetry, 
his  conviction  of  what  is  wortliy  and  what  is  worth- 
less in  this  strange  and  wonderful  human  pilgrimage 
from  the  dark  to  the  dark. 

But  Dante  was  no  jjassive  instrument  in  the  hands 
of  fate ;  he  was  aware  of  his  own  genius,  he  comj)re- 
hended  the  magnitude  of  the  task  that  he  was  under- 
taking, and  prepared  himself  as  best  he  could  to 
execute  it.   He  had  started   upon  the  quest  of  God, 

60 


INTELLECTUAL  PREPARATION   01 

and  though  in  the  end  he  found  that  he  must  look 
for  God  within  his  own  heart,  in  the  beginning  lie 
thought  that  he  must  look  for  Him  in  the  outside 
universe,  believing  that  the  way  of  the  intellect  was 
the  true  road,  because,  as  he  judged,  if  one  has 
eyes  to  see,  God  reveals  Himself  in  all  objects  of 
sense,  in  all  the  workings  of  the  universe.  So  Dante 
set  out  to  master  all  knowledge.  Even  in  his  youth, 
as  we  learn  from  the  Fita  Nuova,  he  had  begun  with 
diligence,  and  as  years  went  on  he  devoted  to  his 
task  what  time  was  not  taken  up  by  the  immediate 
demands  of  life.  He  studied  when  and  where  he 
could,  and  became  one  of  the  most  learned  men  of 
his  generation,  if  not  actually  the  most  learned  of  all. 
To  his  contemporaries  his  renown  as  a  man  of 
learning  was  almost  as  great  as  his  renown  as  a  poet. 
The  historian  Giovanni  Villani  (a  contemporary) 
wrote:  "Dante  Avas  very  well  read  in  almost  every 
science,  although  he  was  a  layman;  he  was  a  very 
great  poet  and  philosopher  and  a  jierfect  master  of 
style";  and  from  what  he  says  concerning  the  Divine 
Comedy,  it  appears  that  he  was  more  impressed  by 
the  subtle  discussions  in  it  upon  ethics,  natural  his- 
tory, astrology,  philosophy,  and  theology,  than  by 
its  poetry.  The  same  opinion  prevailed  in  the  next 
generation.  Antonio  Pucci,  a  Florentine  poet,  de- 
picts the  seven  liberal  arts,  Grammar,  Logic,  Rhet- 
oric, Arithmetic,  Geometry,  Music,  and  Astronomy, 
as  weeping  and  tearing  their  hair  at  Dante's  deaths 
while  Theology  tries  to  console  them;  but  he  says 
nothing  of  the  Muses.  No  witnesses,  however,  outside 
of  Dante's  writings  are  needed  to  prove  his  learning. 


62  DANTE 

His  writings  are  stuffed  with  references  and  quo- 
tations. In  this  stage  of  study  and  self-preparation, 
certain  particular  matters,  at  one  period  and  another, 
came  to  the  front  and  occupied  his  attention,  in 
especial  the  Italian  language,  ijhilosophy,  and  poli- 
tics, upon  each  of  which  he  wrote  a  book. 

The  treatise  on  the  Italian  language,  De  Vulgari 
Eloquentia,  written  in  Latin,  is  a  book  of  remarkable 
scholarship  for  the  time.  Italian,  in  her  development 
from  the  Latin,  had  lingered  behind  her  sister  tongues 
of  France,  Provence,  and  Spain.  The  reasons  for  this 
are  easily  understood.  In  Italy  the  Latin  language 
naturally  had  a  more  tenacious  hold  than  elsewhere 
in  Europe,  and  had  received  a  smaller  admixture  of 
foi'eign  words ;  therefore  Italian  had  been  tardier  in 
growing  out  of  the  debased  Latin  of  the  dark  ages 
into  a  modern  language.  And  even  after  what  may 
be  called  Italian  had  become  the  common  speech 
of  the  people,  it  found  Latin  entrenched  across  its 
path,  thwarting  its  progress  towards  becoming  the 
accepted  mode  of  expression  either  in  writing  or 
talking  for  educated  men.  Latin  was  the  language 
of  the  Church,  of  the  law,  of  government,  of  all 
serious  affairs;  it  was  taught  in  the  schools  as  the 
language  of  the  upper  class ;  it  held  a  large  place  in 
the  patriotic  heart,  for  it  was  all  that  was  left  of  the 
imperial  inheritance  from  ancient  Rome,  mistress 
of  the  world.  The  Italians  proudly  called  it  "la 
lingua  nostra  latina" — "our  Latin  language."  So 
that  in  the  twelfth  century,  although  there  were 
already  national  literatures  in  England,  Germany, 
France,    Provence,    and    Spain,    there    was    none    in 


INTELLECTUAL  PREPARATION   63 

Italy.  The  earliest  specimen  of  Italian  poetry  that 
has  any  interest  for  modern  readers  is  St.  Francis's 
canticle  to  the  sun.  But  that  canticle  is  outside  the 
main  channel  of  Italian  jjoetry.  That  main  channel 
takes  us  back  to  Provence. 

Proven9al  poetry  had  at  this  time  already  reached 
a  high  stage  of  delicate  lyrical  finish;  it  was  con- 
ventional, refined,  aristocratic,  fit  for  the  leisure 
of  jjleasure-loving  lords  and  ladies.  Troubadours 
wandered  into  Italy ;  and  so  great  was  the  prestige  of 
Provencal  poetry  in  Lombardy  that  many  poets, 
Italian  born,  wrote  their  lyrics  in  Proven9al  and 
in  accordance  with  the  rules  of  Provencal  verse.  Of 
these  the  most  famous  is  Sordello  of  Mantua,  who 
was  still  living,  a  man  of  more  than  three  score, 
when  Dante  was  born.  After  the  French  crusaders, 
led  by  Simon  de  INIontfort  and  blessed  by  Pope 
Innocent  III,  had  trampled  under  foot  the  easy 
pleasant  civilization  of  Provence,  many  more  trouba- 
dours sought  refuge  in  Italy.  So,  of  their  own  free 
will  or  chased  from  home  by  invaders,  Proven9al 
poets  familiarly  frequented  the  princely  courts  of 
Italy. 

From  this  Provencal  poetry  Italian  lyrical  poetry 
took  its  origin.  The  earliest  school  had  its  home  in 
Southern  Italy,  and  was  called  the  Sicilian  School, 
although  its  members  came  from  all  about,  because 
its  most  distinguished  patron,  the  Emperor  Fred- 
erick II,  was  King  of  Sicily;  its  princij)al  poets  were 
the  Emperor  himself,  his  two  charming  sons,  Man- 
fred and  Enzio,  his  chief  counselor,  Pier  della  Vigna, 
and  Jacopo  da  Lentino,  known  from  his  profession  as 


64  1)  A  N  T  E 

the  Notary,  who,  thoui^h  the  least  of  the  group  as  a 
personage,  was  the  most  important  as  a  poet.  The 
next  school  in  Italian  poetry  centers  about  Guitone 
of  Arezzo  (a  little  town  in  Tusc;iny  near  Florence), 
who  lived  till  Dante  was  nearly  thirty,  and,  as  he 
seems  to  have  spent  the  end  of  his  life  in  Florence, 
may  have  been  known  to  Dante.  Then,  for  the 
third  stage,  the  genius  of  poetry  going  nortli  tarried 
in  Bologna,  where  the  great  figure  is  Guido  Guinizelli 
(1230?- 1276),  whom  Dante  admired  greatly.  In  the 
Purgatorio  Dante  calls  him 

il   ])adrp 
mio,  ('  dcfrli  altrl  inici  iniglior,  che  mai 
rime  d'aniore  usar  dolci  e  leggiadre. 

My  father, 
And  of  those,  my  l)ctters,  who  ever  made 
Sweet,  graeious,  dainty  rhymes  of  love. 

Purff.   XXVI,  07-09 

These  earlier  Italian  poets  imitated  very  closely 
their  Provencal  masters ;  but  Guinizelli  introduced 
an  idealistic  j)hilosophy  and  a  new  manner  into  his 
poems,  so  that  they  became  the  starting  point  of  a 
new  Tuscan  school,  composed  of  Guido  Cavalcanti, 
Dante,  Cino  of  Pistoia,  and  others. 

Provencal  poetry  and  this  early  Italian  poetry, 
Dante  studied  with  great  care.  He  had  made  his 
vow  that  lie  "would  say  nothing  further  of  this 
most  blessed  one  [IJeatrice]  until  such  time  as  he 
could  discourse  more  worthily  concerning  her." 
And  to  he  able  to  discourse  worthily,  he  must 
become  a  master  of  the  art  of  language.   How  dili- 


INTELLECTUAL  PREPARATION   05 

gently  he  investigated  this  art,  the  De  Ftilgari  Elo- 
quentia  tells  us.  It  is  an  admirable  treatise,  clear, 
learned,  and  scientific.  Dante  speaks  of  the  origin 
of  language,  of  its  three  great  branches,  and  of  the 
three  subdivisions  into  which  the  branch  prevailing 
in  southwestern  Europe  was  divided,  the  tongues  in 
which  yes  is  expressed  by  oc,  oil,  and  si.  He  then  sets 
out  to  see  if  there  is  an  Italian  language  worthy  to 
be  the  national,  literary  language,  and  in  this  quest 
examines  and  criticizes  the  numerous  dialects  of 
Italy.  He  enumerates  them  one  by  one  and  finds  them 
all  inadequate,  and  concludes  that  the  Italian  lan- 
guage he  is  looking  for,  worthy  to  serve  the  highest 
uses  of  educated  men,  is  the  general  speech  of  all 
Italy  freed  from  the  peculiarities  and  grossness  of 
local  dialects.  To  this  he  applies  the  adjectives  "il- 
lustrious, cardinal,  courtly  and  curial,"  which  means 
proper  for  palaces,  courts  of  justice,  and  in  general 
dignified  and  polished  use.  He  then  treats  of  this 
national  literary  language,  of  its  employment  in 
poetry, — especially  for  dealing  with  the  proper  sub- 
jects of  lyrical  poetry,  war,  love,  and  righteousness, 
— and  more  particularly  in  the  ode  (canzone).  He 
analyzes  and  judges  the  structure  of  the  ode,  the 
number  of  syllables  in  the  line,  the  words  proper  to 
be  used,  in  short  what  we  call  the  technique  of  the 
poetic  art.  The  treatise  was  broken  off  abruptly,  but 
there  is  enough  to  show  that  he  took  the  greatest 
pains  to  master  his  art,  so  that  the  manner  of  his 
poem  should  be  worthy  of  its  matter. 

The  Banquet,  II  Convivio,  is  a  book,  in  Italian,  on 
philosophy.  In  form  it  is  a  collection  of  his  odes  with 


66  DANTE 

long  glosses  that  are  packed  full  of  all  the  learning 
of  the  time.  In  these  glosses  Dante  takes  the  doc- 
trines of  the  two  great  religious  philosophers,  Alber- 
tus  Magnus  and  Thomas  Aquinas,  whose  special 
task  had  been  to  combine  and  reconcile  the  teachings 
of  Aristotle  and  of  the  Bible,  and  puts  their  doctrines 
into  a  form  more  intelligible  to  persons  who  are  not 
scholars.  The  whole  book  is  divided  into  parts,  called 
treatises,  each  treatise  being  a  commentary  on  an 
ode;  of  these  there  were  to  be  fifteen,  but  only  four 
were  completed.  The  first  is  introductory  and  sets 
forth  Dante's  reasons  for  writing  the  book  and  for 
writing  it  in  Italian,  instead  of  in  Latin,  which  would 
be  the  ap))ropriate  language  for  a  work  on  philos- 
opliy.  In  the  second,  he  comments  upon  the  ode  that 
begins  witli  an  apostrophe  to  tlie  angelic  beings  who 
preside  over  the  heaven  of  Venus,  from  whence  rain 
down  influences  of  love.  The  first  line  is, 

Voi    chc    intendendo    il    tcrzo    ciel    niovete, 

Ye  who   I)y  understanding  move  the  third  heaven. 

It  is  in  this  commentary  that  lie  states  that  by  the 
gentle  I.ady  of  the  Window,  spoken  of  in  the  Jita 
Nuova,  he  represented  riiilosopliy.  Then,  comment- 
ing upon  the  verses  in  order,  he  adds  an  exposition 
of  the  heavens,  of  the  angelic  intelligences  that 
govern  them,  and  of  kindred  matters.  All  this  is  of 
great  help  in  understanding  t]\v.  mediaeval  learning 
packed  into  the  Commedia.  In  these  comments  he 
follows  the  accepted  method  of  expounding  first  the 
literal  meaning  and  afterwards  the  allegorical  mean- 


INTELLECTUAL    PllEPARATION       67 

ing.  In  the  third  treatise  he  explains  that  what, 
according  to  the  bald  meaning  of  the  words,  appears 
to  be  the  passion  of  human  love  is  really  love  of 
jjhilosophy.  In  the  fourth  treatise  he  discourses  at 
length  upon  the  true  nature  of  nobility.  The  other 
treatises,  so  far  as  we  know,  were  never  written. 

Dante's  learning  was  vast.  He  did  not  pursue 
learning  for  learning's  sake  nor  out  of  intellectual 
curiosity,  but  because  knowledge  of  all  kinds,  so  he 
believed,  is  knowledge  of  God.  The  ultimate  goal  of 
all  endeavor  is  to  see  God  face  to  face,  but  in  the 
meantime,  before  the  soul  is  lifted  up  to  such  a 
height,  the  more  the  intellect  understands  of  the 
workings  of  God's  will  in  the  universe,  the  nearer 
the  soul  comes  to  God.  Two  wings  are  necessary  for 
the  soul's  flight,  the  heart  and  the  intellect.  To  be 
sure  one  cannot  know  God  unless  one  loves  Him, 
but  one  cannot  love  Him  as  He  deserves  unless  one 
knows  Him.  God  is  truth.  Christ  expressly  said:  "I 
am  .  .  .  the  truth"  (St.  John  xiv,  6).  And  truth, 
for  men,  is  a  knowledge  of  reality ;  and  though  it  may 
be  that  the  presence  of  God  can  be  perceived  more 
vividly  in  ecstatic  vision,  nevertheless  in  ordinary 
moments  His  presence  can  be  perceived  in  all  parts 
of  creation.  As  a  lover  of  art  gets  to  know  an  artist 
by  studying  his  works,  so  Dante  believed  that  he 
attained,  by  amassing  knowledge,  to  a  clearer  under- 
standing of  God. 

St.  Paul  says:  "God  our  Saviour  .  .  .  will  have  all 
men  to  be  saved  and  to  come  into  the  knowledge  of 
the  truth"  (I  Tim.  ii,  4).  And  Christ  himself  had 
said:   "Ye   shall  know  the  truth  and  the  truth  shall 


68  1)  A  N  T  E 

make  you  free"  (St.  John  viii,  32).  Truth  is  the 
meeting  of  man's  mind  with  God,  and  God — 
though  all  these  matters  are  beyond  the  j)lummet  of 
the  luiman  intellect — is  present  in  all  His  "works ; 
in  them  man  still  feels  the  pressure  of  His  creative 
hand,  and  touches  the  prints  of  His  fingers.  So — 
Dante  would  say — by  knowledge  of  matter  and 
energy,  of  time  and  space,  of  things  metaphysical 
and  spiritual,  the  seeker  after  God  enters  into  the 
outej  courts  of  His  presence  and  feels  the  breathings 
of  His  spirit.  Not  an  ignorant  and  slothful  intellect 
can  perceive  God;  but  an  intellect  clarified  and 
stimulated  by  effort,  an  intellect  that  has  sought 
God  everywhere,  in  all  His  handiwork,  in  the  heavens 
that  declare  His  glory,  in  men,  in  beasts,  in  plants, 
in  all  manifestations  whatever  of  His  power  and 
majesty.  "Through  knowledge  shall  the  just  be  de- 
livered" (Prov.  xi,  9).  So,  Dante,  with  such  hopes 
and  beliefs, in  his  exile  and  wanderings, in  his  poverty 
and  dej)endence  upon  others,  steadily  pressed  on 
upon  the  path  of  knowledge  tliat  his  soul  might  at 
last  be  jiermitted  to  see  God  face  to  face.  And  having 
studied  in  order  to  help  his  own  soul,  he  wrote  II 
Convivio  to  help  others,  for  as  he  says:  "The  prin- 
cijjal  design  of  it  is  to  lead  men  to  knowledge  and 
virtue"   (First  treatise,  ch.  IX). 

The  De  Monarchia  is  primarily  a  political  treatise 
on  the  relation  between  Church  and  State.  It  is 
written  in  Latin,  because  Dante  here  is  a  scholar 
talking  to  scholars.  Taken  together  with  the  Con- 
vivio it  shows  how  Dante's  thought  is  gradually 
moving  towards  the  form  it  was  finally  to  take  in  the 


INTELLECTURAL    rREPARATION        69 

Commedia.  The  Convivio  deals  with  one  aspect  of  the 
problem  that  continually  occupied  him,  how  man 
shall  pass  from  the  confusion  of  sin  to  the  ordered 
peace  of  the  sjiirit;  that  aspect  pointed  to  salvation 
through  knowledge.  The  De  Monarchia  considers  the 
same  problem  from  a  political,  or  social,  point  of 
view.  Both,  in  their  most  serious  meanings,  make 
one  prayer,  "Grant  us  thy  peace."  If  Dante  had 
been  a  recluse,  he  would  have  concerned  himself  only 
with  the  soul  and  its  spiritual  salvation ;  but  he  was 
a  man  of  action,  full  of  compassion  for  mankind,  and 
he  would  not  be  saved  alone.  For  him  the  problems 
of  salvation  concerned  social  and  political  life  as  well 
as  personal  life.  He  felt  with  Tolstoi, — "They 
speak  in  vain  who  say  that  the  Christian  teaching 
touches  the  personal  salvation,  and  not  the  general 
question  of  state"  {My  Religion,  ch.  III).  Dante 
sought  for  the  great  law  of  spiritual  gravitation  that 
draws  all  things  to  God — "quia  fecisti  nos  ad  te  et 
inquietuvi  est  cor  nostrum,  donee  requiescat  in  te,"  for 
Thou  hast  made  us  for  Thyself,  and  our  hearts  are 
restless  until  they  find  rest  in  Thee  (St.  Aug.  Conf. 
I,  1).  The  De  Monarchia  is  an  examination  of  the  po- 
litical basis  necessary  to  enable  that  s})iritual  law  to 
operate.  Dante  starts  from  the  premise  that  the  souls 
of  men  cannot  attain  to  God  unless  they  are  free  to 
busy  themselves  with  the  task  of  self-perfectioning; 
they  must  have  full  liberty  for  contemplation  and 
for  action.  Such  liberty  cannot  exist  where  there  is 
S.ocial  confusion;  and  social  confusion  will  exist  so 
long  as  there  are  a  multitude  of  rulers,  with  selfish 
ambitions  and  interests,  each  covetous  and  grasping. 


70  D  A  N  T  E 

Tolstoi  says  the  same  thing:  "The  greatest  welfare 
of  man  towards  which  all  men  aspire  can  only  be 
obtained  by  perfect  union  and  concord  among  men" 
(^Christian  Teaching).  Tolstoi  also  says:  "I  not  only 
know  now  that  my  separation  from  other  nations  is 
an  evil  which  ruins  my  good:  I  know  also  the  offense 
which  has  led  me  into  this  evil,  and  I  can  no  longer, 
as  I  used  to  before,  serve  it  calmh^  and  consciously. 
I  know  that  this  offense  consists  in  the  delusion  that 
my  good  is  connected  only  with  the  good  of  my 
nation  and  not  with  the  good  of  the  whole  world. 
Now  I  know  that  my  union  with  other  men  cannot 
be  impaired  by  a  border  line  and  by  government  de- 
cisions as  to  my  belonging  to  this  nation  or  to  that. 
...  I  now  understand  the  meaning  of  the  words. 
Do  good  to  your  enemies ;  do  to  them  what  you  would 
do  to  your  own  people.  You  are  all  the  children  of 
one  Father;  and  be  like  your  Father,  that  is  make 
no  division  between  your  nation  and  another, — be 
alike  to  all.  Now  I  understand  that  the  good  is 
possible  for  me  only  when  I  recognize  the  union  with 
all  men  of  the  world  without  any  exception." 

Dante's  theory  was  that  the  cure  for  divisions, 
hostility,  and  war  between  nation  and  nation,  prince 
and  prince,  city  and  city,  faction  and  faction,  lies  in 
bringing  them  all  under  one  common  government. 
To-day,  still  more  poignantly,  we  feel  the  same  need; 
and  our  remedy  ajiproximates  to  his,  for  we  propose 
to  bring  all  nations  under  tlie  guidance  of  one  su- 
preme court  in  all  matters  of  international  dissension. 
By  different  roads  we  arrive  at  the  same  conclusion. 
There    must    be    a    monarch — a    supreme    will — that 


INTELLECTUAL  PREPARATION   71 

shall  have  power  to  settle  quarrels,  maintain  peace, 
to  decide  between  divergent  national  interests,  and 
to  spread  good  will  among  men.  For  us  that  monarch, 
that  supreme  will,  must  be  composed  of  the  coordi- 
nated wills  of  many  nations ;  for  Dante,  it  was  the 
Emperor  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire,  a  ruler  ap- 
pointed by  Divine  Providence,  and  raised  high 
above  the  temptations  that  beset  lesser  princes. 
We  in  America  base  our  hopes  in  this  respect  on  the 
analogy  of  the  successful  union  of  our  forty-eight 
states  united  under  one  head;  Dante  based  his  hopes 
on  the  teaching  of  European  history,  that  only  the 
dominion  of  the  Emperor  of  the  Roman  Empire 
could  establish  peace,  order,  justice,  law. 

The  De  Monarchia  is  divided  into  three  parts.  The 
first  sets  forth  the  need  of  monarchy  for  humanity; 
the  second,  the  proofs  that  the  Romans  M'ere  God's 
chosen  people,  appointed  by  Him  to  establish  uni- 
versal monarchy;  the  third  discusses  the  relations 
between  this  universal  temporal  rule  of  the  Emperor 
and  the  universal  spiritual  rule  of  the  papacy,  and 
concludes  that  the  right  of  the  Roman  Emperor  is 
derived  directly  from  God  and  is  not  dependent  upon 
the  papal  will.  From  this  the  obvious  inference  is  that 
the  Pope  must  not  cross  the  Emperor  in  temporal 
matters. 

Under  the  government  of  an  Emperor,  raised 
above  mortal  temptations  (so  Dante  thought), 
righteousness  will  flourish,  men  will  find  themselves 
equal  to  the  task  of  combating  evil,  and  able  to  give 
themselves  to  contemplation,  to  prayer,  to  a  long- 
continued  discipline   of  the  senses,  to  things   of  the 


72  DAN  T  E 

mind  and  tilings  of  the  soul,  and  so,  though  the 
human  heart  will  still  need  refining  and  purifying, 
they  may  have  comfortable  hope  that  in  the  end 
they  shall  attain  to  a  knowledge  and  love  of  God. 

In  this  way  Dante,  listening  to  the  incantations 
of  hope,  lifted  up  his  eyes  above  the  battlements  and 
castellated  tops  that  shut  in  the  narrow  streets  of 
Verona  and  Ravenna,  above  the  towers  of  Bologna, 
beyond  the  clangor  of  warlike  bells,  and  the  vitupera- 
tions of  angry  citizens,  beyond  the  rough  tops  of  the 
Apennines,  beyond  the  steep  stairs  and  the  salt 
bread  of  exile,  high  above  the  grossness  and  cruelty 
of  common  life,  and  gazed  at  the  starry  sky,  and  be- 
lieved that  as  God  had  established  an  order  in 
heaven,  so  should  an  Emperor  establish  order  on 
earth. 

But  after  the  death  of  Henry  VII,  his  thoughts 
turned  from  outward  peace  to  inward  ])eace,  and 
little  by  little  he  learned  the  supreme  lesson  of  life, 
that  the  confusion  which  tosses  us  to  and  fro,  and 
the  peace  that  comforts  and  illumines  us,  are  not  in 
the  material  world  without  but  in  the  spiritual  world 
within,  and  pondering  on  this  lesson,  and  having 
mastered  the  art  of  poetry,  and  having  profoundly 
studied  science  and  philosophy,  he  applied  himself 
with  all  his  heart  and  soul,  and  all  his  mind,  to 
the  great  task  to  which  he  had  dedicated  himself 
in  youth. 


CHAPTER     VII 

THE  INFERNO 

THE  Commedia  consists  of  three  parts, — the 
Inferno,  the  Purgatorio,  and  the  Paradiso. 
Each  part  has  thirty-three  cantos,  and  the 
Inferno  an  introductory  canto  as  well,  so  that  in  all 
there  are  a  hundred.  The  verse  is  terza  rima,  a  form 
virtually  of  Dante's  own  creating,  the  lines  being 
grouped  three  by  three,  and  each  rime  repeated 
thrice,  in  this  fashion,  A  B  A,  B  C  B,  C  D  C,  and  so 
on.  At  the  beginning  and  end  of  each  canto  one  of  the 
three  rimes  is  of  necessity  omitted.  The  line  has 
eleven  syllables  as  read  aloud;  but  as  a  vowel  at  the 
end  of  a  word  is  elided  when  the  next  word  begins 
with  a  vowel,  the  reader  often  sees  printed  many 
more  syllables  than  are  pronounced. 

Dante  called  the  poem  a  commedia,  because  as 
with  comedy  it  begins  in  a  troublous  and  threatening 
situation  and  ends  happily,  and  also  because  it  is 
written  in  Italian,  not  Latin,  and  in  a  loose  and 
simple  manner  (Letter  to  Can  Grande,  Sec.  10),  in 
a  less  stately  style  than  would  befit  tragedy  (De 
Vulg.  El.  Book  I,  ch.  IV).  To  this  name  posterity  has 
prefixed  the  adjective  divine.  Boccaccio  speaks  of  the 
divina  commedia,  but  this  phrase  was  not  used  as  a 
title  until  an  edition  published  in  1555. 

73 


^ 


<  •*  DA  X  T  E 

The  Commedia  has  two  principal  aspects, — literal 
and  allegorical.  Dante's  contemporaries  knew,  with- 
out being  told,  and  modern  readers  conversant  with 
mediaeval  literature  know,  that  a  poem  written  at 
the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century  on  such  a 
subject  could  not  be  a  mere  story,  but  must  hold  a 
deeper  meaning  in  the  allegory  hidden  beneath  the 
letter.  Nevertheless,  Dante,  having  made  the  literal 
story  as  vivid  and  picturesque  as  language  is  able  to 
do,  is  half  afraid  lest  the  attention  of  his  readers  may 
be  absorbed  by  its  fascination ;  therefore  he  reminds 
them  again  and  again  of  the  allegory  underneath.  In 
one  of  the  early  cantos  of  tlie  Inferno  he  says: 

O  voi,  che  avete  gl'  intelletti  sani, 
mirate  la  dottrina,  che  s'asconde 
sotto  il  velame  degli  versi  strani! 

O  ye  who  have  your  understandings  sound 
Look  at  the  teaching  that  lies  hid 
Under  the  veiling  of  these  verses  strange. 

Inf.   IX,   61-63 

And  he  also  did  the  same  in  the  Purcjatorio: 

Aguzza  qui,  lettor,  ben  gli  occhi  al  vero, 
chfe  il  velo  ^  ora  ben  tanto  sottile, 
certo,  che  il  trapassar  dentro  e  leggiero. 

Sharpen  your  eyes  here.  Reader,  to  the  truth 
Because  the  veil  is  now  so  very  thin 
That  verily  to  pass  within  is  easy. 

Purrj.  VIII,  19-21 

And  a  third  time,  in  the  dedicatory  letter  to  Can 
Grande,  which  is  a  .sort  of  preface  to  the  Paradiso, 
he  insists  on  the  importance  of  the  allegory.   Dante 


I  X  F  E  R  N  O  75 

never    forgot    tliat    lie    is    a    preacher,    as    well    as    a 
prophet  and  poet. 

In  its  literal  aspect  the  Inferno  is  the  hell  of  popu- 
lar tradition,  the  abode  of  lost  souls  after  death.  It 
is  a  great  pit,  shaped  like  a  cone,  growing  narrov/er 
and  narrower,  with  its  mouth  under  ground  some- 
where below  Jerusalem,  and  its  ajjex  down  at  the 
very  center  of  the  earth.  In  places  this  pit  is  encircled 
by  rugged  ledges,  and  at  others  its  sides  are  sheer 
precii^ices  of  almost  unimaginable  depth.  Round 
these  frightful  circles,  down  these  horrible  abysses, 
we  accompany  the  poet.  Every  step  of  the  way  is  as 
vivid  to  our  intelligence  as  objects  of  sight.  Dante 
begins  by  saying  that  in  the  mid-road  of  human  life 
he  became  aware  that  he  was  in  a  wild,  dark  wood, 
and  had  lost  his  way;  nevertheless  he  could  see  the 
top  of  a  sunlit  mountain  and  was  starting  out 
towards  it  Avhen  savage  beasts  rushed  out  and 
frightened  him  so  that  he  turned  to  go  back.  To 
his  great  comfort  he  perceives  some  one  coming.  It 
is  the  gracious  Virgil,  who  tells  him  that  to  escape 
from  the  wild  wood  he  must  take  another  way,  and 
that  he  will  guide  him  through  the  darkness  of  Hell 
and  up  through  Purgatory.  Dante  shrinks  back  at 
the  mere  thought  of  going  down  into  Hell,  but  Virgil 
inspires  him  with  courage  by  recounting  how  Bea- 
trice had  come  down  from  Heaven  on  purpose  to 
rescue  him.  So  they  set  forth  and  pass  through  the 
gate  of  Hell,  under  the  terrible  inscription, — 
lasciate  ogni  speranza,  vol  ch'  entrate. 

All  hope  abandon  ye  who  enter  here. 

Inf.  Ill,  9 


76  B  A  N  T  E 

There,  in  a  sort  of  vestibule,  Dante  hears  all  the 
various  sounds  of  woe.  First  are  the  cowards  who 
evaded  the  responsibility  of  life,  daring  neither  to  do 
right  nor  to  do  wrong: 

Questo  misero  modo 
tengon  1'  anime  triste  di  colore, 
c'he  visser  scnza  infainia  e  senza  lodo. 

Misdiiate  sono  a  quel  cattivo  coro 
dcfrli  angeli  chc  non  furon  rihelli, 
nb  fur  fedcli  a  Die,  ma  per  se  foro. 

Cacciarli  i  ciel  per  non  esser  men  belli, 
nb  lo  jirofondo  inferno  gli  riceve, 
chfe  alcuna  gloria  i  rei  avrebber  d'  elli. 

This  wretched  kind  of  life 
the  miserable  spirits  lead  of  those 
who  lived  with  neither  infamy  nor  praise. 
Commingled  are  they  with  that  worthless  choir 
of  Angels  who  did  not  rebel,  nor  yet 
were  true  to  God,  hut  sided  with  themselves. 
The  heavens,  in  order  not  to  he  less  fair, 
expelled  them;  nor  doth  nether  Hell  receive  them, 
because  the  bad  would  get  some  glory  thence. 

Inf.  Ill,  34-42,  I.ANGD0N 

Then  the  poets  reach  the  river  Acheron,  across 
which  Charon  ferries  them,  and  on  the  further  side 
they  come  to  I^inibo,  where  they  see  the  souls  of  those 
who  never  knew  God,  both  the  unbaptized  and  the 
heatlien.  After  this  tliey  ])ass  the  great  judge,  Minos, 
and  arrive  at  the  circle  wliere  sins  of  the  flesh  are 
punished.  Here  they  meet  Francesca  da  Rimini,  who 
tells  her  story,  not  outdone  in  tenderness  even  by  the 
scene  in  King  Lear  where  the  poor  old  man  slowly 
comes    to    his    senses    and    recognizes    his    daughter 


INFERNO  77 

Cordelia  (Act  IV,  scene  VII).  It  is  one  of  the  per- 
fect passages  in  all  poetry.  On  the  two  poets  go, 
through  the  abode  of  gluttons,  misers,  prodigals,  of 
the  wrathful,  across  the  foul  Stygian  swamp,  and 
approach  the  city  of  Dis,  the  inner  citadel  of  Hell. 
Here  a  multitude  of  demons  forbid  their  entrance,  but 
an  angel  descends  from  Heaven  and  drives  them 
back.  They  pass  in,  and  see  the  punishment  of  here- 
tics, among  whom  is  Farinata  degli  Uberti ;  and, 
further  down,  they  walk  round  other  circles  peopled 
by  the  souls  of  the  violent, — tyrants,  murderers, 
conquerors,  and  suicides.  Here  is  Pier  della  Vigna, 
bosom  counselor  to  Frederick  II.  Further  down  still 
are  those  who  have  offended  against  the  primal  laws 
of  nature;  among  these  is  Brunetto  Latini.  Then 
down  into  Malebolge  (pouches  of  evil),  where  there 
is  a  horrid  succession  of  panders,  seducers,  flatterers, 
simonists,  magicians,  cheats,  hypocrites,  thieves,  and 
evil  counselors. 

Here  they  meet  Ulysses ;  and  in  meeting  him,  as  in 
meeting  Pier  della  Vigna  and  Brunetto  Latini,  the 
preacher  and  the  prophet  are  lost  in  the  poet,  and 
Dante,  kindled  to  enthusiasm,  gives  rein  to  his 
admiration.  Ulysses  tells  the  story  of  his  last  voyage, 
how  neither  the  sweet  society  of  his  son,  nor  filial 
duty  towards  his  old  father,  nor  marital  love  for 
Penelope,  had  been  able  to  restrain  his  ardent  curi- 
osity to  see  the  world;  so  he  had  put  to  sea  with  his 
little  band  of  comrades,  and  sailed  westward  through 
the  Mediterranean  out  past  the  pillars  which  Her- 
cules had  set  as  a  mark  that  no  man  should  venture 
further : 


78  D  A  X  T  E 

"O  frati,"  dissi,  "che  per  cento  milia 
perigli  siete  giiinti  all'  occidente, 
a  questa  tanto  ])icciola  vigilia 

de'  vostri  sensi,  ch'  e  del  rinianente, 
non  vogliate  negar  1'  esperienza, 
di  retro  al  sol,  del  mondo  senza  gente. 

Considerate  la  vostra  seinenza: 

fatti  non  foste  a  viver  come  bruti, 
nia  per  seguir  virtute  e  conoscenza." 

And  then  I  said:  "O  brothers,  ye  who  now 

have   through   a   hundred   thousand   perils   reached 

the  West,  to  this  so  short  a  waking-time 

still  left  your  senses,  will  not  to  refuse 

experience  of  that  world  behind  the  sun 

wliich  knows  not  man !  Bethink  you  of  the  seed 

whence  ye  have  sprung;  for  ye  were  not  created 

to  lead  the  life  of  stupid  animals, 

but  manliness  and  knowledge  to  pursue." 

Inf.  XXVI,  112-130,  Langdon 

After  leaving  Ulysses,  Virgil  and  Dante  take  their 
way  still  downward,  towards  the  bottom  of  the  pit, 
where  disloyalty  shows  its  hideous  character.  Here 
is  the  episode  of  Ugolino  with  his  teeth  in  the  skull 
of  Archbishop  Ruggieri,  both  frozen  in  one  hole 
{Inf.  XXXII-XXXIII).  And  at  the  very  bottom  of 
the  pit  are  the  most  horrid  traitors  of  all,  Cassius, 
Brutus,  Judas,  and  Satan  himself,  with  no  touch  of 
dignity  or  nobility,  but  foul,  bestial,  and  loathsome. 
This  is  the  depth  of  Hell,  the  center  of  the  earth;  and 
having  descended  to  tlic  central  spot,  the  poets  turn 
and  j)rocced  upward  by  a  little  path  that  leads  them 
once  more  to  the  sweet  air,  at  the  antipodes  of 
Jerusalem,  and  they  issue  forth  on  the  other  side  of 


INFERNO  79 

the  world,  "a  riveder  le  stelle,"  "to  see  the  stars 
again,"  near  the  base  of  the  Mount  of  Purgatory. 

This  is  a  wonderful  narrative.  The  reader  forgets 
that  he  has  not  followed  Virgil  himself,  so  grimly  all 
the  rugged  path,  the  foul  swamp,  the  great  bowlders, 
the  fearful  depths,  the  wretched  men,  and  the  mighty 
servants  of  Hell  have  stood  forth  against  the  back- 
ground of  everlasting  darkness.  Never  has  a  master 
of  words  possessed  so  much  of  the  power  of  the 
painter,  the  sculptor,  and  the  architect.  Dante  has 
planned,  digged,  built,  modeled,  and  colored.  He 
must  have  had  a  remarkable  eye  for  visual  eifects. 
Leonard!  Bruni  says:  "Di  sua  mano  egregiamente 
disegnava,"  "with  his  own  hand  he  drew  extraordi- 
narily well,"  and,  in  the  J'lta  Nuova,  Dante  himself 
speaks  of  drawing:  "I  betook  myself  to  drawing  the 
likeness  of  an  angel  on  my  tablets";  but  there  needs 
no  evidence  outside  of  the  Commedia  to  show  his 
interest  in  all  the  arts;  there  one  sees  in  the  blossom 
that  Florentine  delight  in  art  of  all  kinds  which 
came  to  full  flowering  during  the  following  centuries. 

But  to  Dante  this  literal  Hell  was  a  secondary 
matter;  so  it  is  to  us.  He  and  we  are  concerned  with 
the  allegory.  That  allegory  is  simple.  Hell  is  the 
absence  of  God.  Thomas  a  Kempis  cried  out:  "Where 
Thou  art,  there  is  heaven;  and  where  Thou  are  not, 
there  is  death  and  hell."  Hell  is  the  consequence  of 
sin,  and  sin  is  negation,  a  closing  of  the  eyes  to  the 
presence  of  God,  a  refusal  to  take  His  proffered 
hand,  a  denial  of  all  loyalty  to  the  divine.  Dante's 
conception  of  sin  is  like  that  of  all  great  moral 
geniuses   who  have   learned  to  know  the   peace   and 


80  1)  A  N  T  E 

joy  of  the  presence  of  God.  Sin  is  a  turning  away 
from  God.  St.  Augustine  says:  "I  incjuired  wliat 
iniquity  might  be,  and  I  found  it  not  to  be  :i  sub- 
stance, but  a  swerving  merely  of  the  will,  turned 
quite  away  from  Thee,  O  God  .  .  .  towards  lowest 
things"  {Conf.  V^II,  IG).  But  sin  may  be  worse  than 
that.  "Sin,"  John  Bunyan  said  on  his  deathbed, 
"turns  all  God's  grace  into  wantonness;  it  is  the 
dare  of  His  justice,  the  rape  of  His  mercy,  the  jeer 
of  His  patience,  the  slight  of  His  power  and  the  con- 
tempt of  His  love." 

This  is  the  awful  thing,  contempt  of  God's  love. 
It  is  God's  love  (manifested  for  most  people  in  human 
love)  that  constitutes  goodness  and  happiness.  H 
men  turn  from  love,  they  inflict  upon  themselves 
their  own  punishment.  God's  presence,  when  intel- 
ligible to  the  human  mind,  is  to  be  found  in  love,  in 
beauty,  in  radiance,  in  kindness,  in  joy,  in  work,  in 
sacrifice;  and  so  to  forsake  Him,  the  Sum  of  Good, 
is  to  descend  into  Hell.  Dante's  literal  Hell  is  sin 
made  visible,  palpable;  his  sinners  are  men  living 
in  the  dark  pit  of  a  consciousness  wholly  unillumined 
by  a  knowledge  or  love  of  God.  Pascal  says:  "Apart 
from  Jesus  Christ  is  naught  but  vice  and  misery, 
error  and  darkness,  death  and  despair."  Necessarily, 
the  soul  tliat  is  in  a  state  of  sin  does  not  behold  the 
manifestations  of  God;  so  in  Dante's  literal  Hell 
there  are  none  of  the  signs  and  wonders  of  God  that 
cheer  men  upon  earth,  no  warmth  of  the  sun,  no 
moonlight  on  the  waters,  no  birds  singing,  no  noises 
of  childhood,  no  dance  of  maidens,  no  nimbleness  of 
youth,  no  smiles,  no  laughs,  no  kindly  human  inter- 


INFERNO  81 

course,  no  flashes  of  heroism,  no  glamour  of  high 
romance,  no  thrill  of  self-sacrifice,  no  reachings  of 
the  mind  toward  infinite  wisdom;  but  in  their  place 
envy,  hatred,  malice,  bestiality,  and  fraud.  The  heart 
has  become  on  unwatered  desert  where  no  good  things 
grow. 

This  is  the  only  explanation  needed  to  understand 
the  allegory,  if  this  obvious  explanation  may  be 
called  necessary;  all  commentaries  and  notes  serve 
only  to  confuse  the  reader  whose  object  is  spiritual 
light.  This  one  key  unlocks  the  whole  inner  meaning 
of  all  the  episodes.  If  the  reader  begins  with  the 
consciousness  that  he  is  reading  about  sin,  spiritually 
understood,  he  never  loses  the  thread,  he  is  never 
at  a  loss,  never  slips  back  into  the  literal  signification. 
The  meaning  of  the  wild  wood,  of  the  beasts,  is 
obvious.  So  Bunyan  says,  "Fears  like  masterless 
hell-hounds  roared  and  bellowed  in  my  soul."  Virgil 
is  unmistakably  a  wise  guide  w'ho  will  lead  a  stray 
soul  through  the  ways  of  sin  and  penitence,  but  can- 
not conduct  it  into  the  presence  of  God,  because  he 
himself  does  not  know  God.  The  gates  of  Hell,  the 
murky  Limbo,  the  circles,  the  precipices,  the  horrible 
coldness  of  the  pit,  need  no  interpreter.  The  dramatis 
personae  of  the  hellish  drama  have  received  the 
stamp  of  individuality  from  the  genius  of  the  poet, 
and  speak  to  Dante  as  man  to  man,  but  they  are 
none  the  less  types  of  sins  such  as  the  Apostle  Paul 
speaks  of:  "Even  as  they  did  not  like  to  retain  God 
in  their  knowledge,  God  gave  them  over  to  a  repro- 
bate mind  to  do  things  which  are  not  convenient; 
being    filled    with    all    unrighteousness,    wickedness, 


82  D  A  N  T  E 

covetousness,  maliciousness,  full  of  envy,  murder, 
debate,  deceit,  malignity,  "whisperers,  backbiters, 
haters  of  God,  despiteful,  proud,  boasters,  inventors 
of  evil  things,  disobedient  to  parents,  without  under- 
standing, covenant-breakers,  without  natural  affec- 
tion, implacable,  unmerciful"  (Rom.  i,  28-31).  "Their 
portion  shall  be  indignation,  "wrath,  tribulation  and 
anguish"  (Is.  ii,  8-9).  The  ghosts  of  such  sins,  Dante 
sa"w  in  his  descent  into  the  lowest  recesses  of  the 
human  heart. 

In  Pilgrim's  Progress  the  allegory  is  almost  lost  in 
the  literal  narrative,  here  the  letter  is  almost  lost  in 
the  allegory.  For  instance,  the  thirst  of  the  forger 
Maestro  Adamo  is  an  obvious  allegory  of  the  thirst 
for  innocence: 

Lasso !  un  gocciol  d'  acqua  liramo. 
I.i  ruscelletti,  che  del  verdi  colli 

del    Casentin    discendon    giuso    in    Arno, 

facendo  i  lor  canali  freddi  e  niolli, 
sempre  mi  stanno  innanzi. 

Alas !  I  crave  a  drop  of  water. 
The  little  brooks  which  toward  the  Arno  run 
down  from  tiie  Casentino's  precn-flad  hills, 
and  render  all  their  channels  cool  and  fresh 
are  evermore  before  me. 

Inf.   XXX,  63-67,   Laxgdok 

Likewise  what  fitter  description  of  a  glutton's 
spiritual  atmosphere  can  there  be  than  in  these  lines? 

Grandine  prossa,  e  acqua  tinta,  e  neve 
per  Taer  tenebroso  si  reversa; 
pute  la  terra  che  questo  riceve. 


INFERNO  83 

Coarse  hail,  and  snow  and  dirty-colored  water 
througli  tlie  darli  air  are  ever  pouring  down; 
and  foully  smells  the  ground  receiving  them. 

Inf.  VI,  10-13,  Langdok 

And   wliat   can   depict   the   mad    fury   of   rage    better 
than  this? 

Qual  e   quel  toro  che  si  slaccia  in  quella 
che  ha  ricevuto  gia  '1  colpo  mortale, 
che  gir  non  sa,  ma  qua  e  la  saltella; 

vid'  io  lo  Minotauro  far  cotale; 

As  doth  a  buU,  who  from  his  leash  breaks  free 
the  moment  he  receives  the  mortal  blow, 
and  cannot  walk  but  plunges  here  and  there; 
so  doing  I  beheld  the  Minotaur. 

Inf.  XII,  22-25,  Langdon 


CHAPTER    VIII 

OTHER    ASPECTS    OF    THE    INFERNO 

EVERYWHERE  the  allegory  constitutes  the 
great  body  of  the  poem,  in  all  its  parts  and 
jnembers,  while  the  literal  story  is  a  mere 
skin  or  covering.  And  yet  under  the  allegory  lies  a 
personal  confession.  It  is  impossible  to  read  the 
Inferno  and  not  know  that  the  jaoet  who  wrote  it  had 
committed  sin.  The  only  mistake  might  be  to  think 
his  sin  more  heinous  than  it  was.  No  doubt  every 
sensitive  spiritual  soul  who  has  done  wrong  and  re- 
pented, when  he  looks  back  upon  his  wrongdoing 
inclines  to  magnify  its  wickedness.  St.  Augustine  dis- 
torted robbing  his  neighbor's  pear  tree  into  a  sin; 
and  Bunyan  suffered  because  he  had  played  hit-the- 
stick  on  Sunday.  But  allowing  for  exaggeration,  it  is 
true,  as  Bunyan  said,  "How  can  he  tell  what  it  is  to 
be  saved,  that  hath  not  in  his  own  conscience  groaned 
under  the  burden  of  sin.?"  Spiritual  souls  may  be 
morbid  and  convert  trivial  misdoing  into  wickedness, 
but  that  is  because  they  understand  what  it  is  to  be 
cut  off  from  the  knowledge  and  love  of  God;  whereas 
ordinary  men,  with  what  they  call  a  healthy  tend- 
ency to  make  the  best  of  things,  incline  to  look 
upon  their  sins  as  trivial  and  excusable. 

Some  of  Dante's  wrongdoing  we  learned  in  another 
84 


OTHER    ASPECTS    OF    THE    INFERNO     85 

chapter.  The  sin  of  incontinence,  however  gross  it 
appeared  to  him  in  the  presence  of  Beatrice,  he  recog- 
nized to  be  the  sin  most  readily  pardoned.  In  Hell  it 
receives  the  lightest  punishment.  That  is  because 
this  sin  is  sometimes  ennobled  by  love,  as  with  Paolo 
and  Francesca;  and  yet  in  spite  of  its  romantic 
glamour,  Dante  saw  the  ugliness  of  the  sin  which 
disfigures  the  beauty  of  love.  St.  Augustine  looked 
back  on  his  backslidings  in  the  same  manner:  "And 
what  was  it  that  I  delighted  in,  but  to  love  and  be 
loved?  but  out  of  the  puddly  concupiscenoe  of  my 
flesh,  certain  mists  and  bubblings  of  youth  fumed  up, 
which  beclouded  and  so  overcast  my  heart,  that  I 
could  not  discern  the  beauty  of  a  chaste  affection 
from  a  fog  of  impure  lustfulness.  Both  did  confusedly 
boil  in  me,  and  ravished  away  my  unstayed  youth 
over  the  downfalls  of  unchaste  desires,  and  drenched 
me  over  head  and  ears  in  the  very  whirlpool  of  most 
heinous  impurities"  (Conf.  II,  2,  translation  by 
Watts).  But  Dante  was  aware  of  a  deeper  and 
subtler  sin,  the  sin  of  pride.  Of  this  sin,  Satan,  "king 
over  all  the  children  of  pride"  (Job  xli,  34),  is  the 
great  symbol.  In  the  days  before  the  war,  old  tradi- 
tional notions  of  chivalry,  of  gentility,  of  what  were 
called  birth  and  honor,  prevented  most  men  from 
understanding  the  true  nature  of  pride;  the  phrase 
"proper  pride"  was  judged  an  acceptable  excuse  for 
many  an  act  of  unchristian  conduct.  The  Church  had 
accomplished  little  or  nothing  by  classifying  pride  as 
one  of  the  seven  deadly  sins.  But  now  that  we  see 
how  pride  of  dynasty,  pride  of  caste,  pride  of  race, 
pride     of     accomplishment,     pride     of     power,    have 


^•J  DAN  T  E 

wrought   a  world   of  woe,   we  understand  better  the 
nature  of  pride,  that  it  is  indeed  a  deadly  sin. 

Coleridge  says  of  it:  "In  its  utmost  abstraction 
and  consequent  state  of  reprobation,  the  Will  be- 
comes Satanic  pride  and  rebellious  self -idolatry  in 
the  relations  of  the  spirit  to  itself,  and  remorseless 
despotism  relatively  to  others ;  the  more  hopeless 
as  the  more  obdurate  by  its  subjugation  of  sensual 
imjjulses,  by  its  superiority  to  toil  and  pain  and 
pleasure:  in  short,  by  the  fearful  resolve  to  find  in 
itself  al«ne  the  one  absolute  motive  of  action,  under 
which  all  other  motives  from  within  and  from  without 
must  be  either  subordinated  or  crushed.  .  .  .  Wher- 
ever it  has  appeared,  under  whatever  circumstances 
of  time  and  country  ...  it  has  been  identified  by 
the  same  attributes.  Hope,  in  which  there  is  no 
cheerfulness ;  steadfastness  within  and  immovable 
resolve,  with  outward  restlessness  and  whirling 
activity;  violence  with  guile;  temerity  with  cunning; 
and,  as  the  result  of  all,  interminableness  of  object 
with  perfect  indifference  of  means"  {Lay  Sermons, 
quoted  in  The  Spirit  of  Man,  No.  274).  Dante  was 
a  proud  man,  but  with  his  clear  spiritual  insight  he 
recognized  the  wickedness  of  pride  and  the  virtue  of 
humility. 

Giovanni  Villani  says:  "Questo  Dante  per  lo  suo 
sapere  fu  alquanto  presontuoso  e  schifo  e  isdegnoso," 
— "This  Dante  on  account  of  his  learning  was 
somewhat  arrogant,  fastidious,  and  disdainful" ;  and 
Boccaccio,  "Fu  il  nostro  Poeta,  .  .  .  di  animo  alto 
e  disdegnoso  molto,"  — "Our  poet  was  of  a  high  spirit 
and   very   disdainful."    Boccaccio   also   tells   a   story, 


OTHER    ASPECTS    OF    THE    INFERNO     87 

foolish  in  itself,  which  serves  to  show  Dante's  jaopular 
reiDutation.  A  proj)osal  was  made  for  the  government 
of  Florence  to  send  an  embassy  to  Pope  Boniface,and 
it  was  suggested  that  Dante  should  be  at  the  head 
of  it;  whereupon  he  said:  "Se  io  vo,  chi  rimane?  se  to 
rimaiigo,  chi  va?"  "If  I  go,  who  stays?  If  I  stay, 
who  goes  ?"  That  is  mere  gossip ;  but  his  pride  is  well 
shown  in  his  letter  refusing  to  accept  the  pardon 
proffered  to  exiles  by  the  Florentine  government; 
it  also  betrays  itself  in  many  places  in  the  Commedia. 
The  wickedness  of  pride  is  that  it  substitutes  self- 
will  in  place  of  the  will  of  God;  like  leaven,  it  puffs 
up  every  sin,  and  pushed  to  extreme  becomes  rank 
disloyalty  to  God,  as  in  Lucifer.  It  mocks  the  prayer 
that  Jesus  taught  to  all  men,  "Thy  will  be  done." 
Dante  knew  his  own  weakness,  and  knew  it  to  be 
sin,  the  cause  of  sorrow  and  suffering. 

But  Dante  is  not  thinking  only  of  himself;  he  is  a 
prophet  yearning  over  people  who  like  silly  sheep 
follow  a  false  show  of  pleasure  and  turn  their  backs 
on  God.  So,  in  the  Inferno,  he  does  not  confine 
himself  to  his  own  sins,  but  enumerates  all  the  cate- 
gories, so  that  we  all  may  find  our  own  wrongdoings 
bodied  forth,  whether  they  are  due  to  incontinence, 
to  anger  and  violence,  or  to  disloyalt^^  towards  what 
we  feel  is  the  highest.  Dante  is  possessed  by  the 
thought  that  no  man  leads  his  life  alone,  that  we  are 
all  members  of  the  great  body  corporate  of  humanity, 
bound  together  for  better,  for  worse ;  therefore,  in 
his  narrative  of  his  own  descent  into  Hell,  he  is  also 
the  representative  of  humanity.  His  experience  is 
the  experience  of  the  race.  Dante  is  full  of  this  feel- 


88  DANTE 

ing  of  his  identity  with  mankind.  For  instance,  during 
humanity's  })ilgrimage  through  the  dark  places  of 
mortal  life,  Christ  had  come  into  the  world  and 
shewed  men  the  true  light  (St.  John  i,  9)  ;  in  like 
manner,  Beatrice,  who  is  also  an  emanation  from 
God,  had  shown  the  true  light  to  him  (/'.  N.  XXIV). 
So  all  through  the  poem  we  find  meaning  intertwined 
with  meaning,  allegory  blended  with  allegory. 

However  much  we  may  be  absorbed  in  the  inner 
meanings  of  the  poem,  we  cannot  escape  from  admi- 
ration for  the  amazing  skill  with  which  the  poet  has 
kept  letter  and  allegory  so  intricately  united,  and 
so  distinct  and  separate.  The  two  are  like  brain  and 
mind,  seeming  to  keep  arm-in-arm  forever,  and  yet 
with  nothing  in  common,  the  one  tangible,  visible, 
material,  the  other  an  unknown,  magic  essence. 
Dante  is  a  master  craftsman,  and,  when  he  will,  a 
master  artist.  Homer,  it  is  said,  nods,  and  Shake- 
speare, it  is  certain,  writes  loose  bombast;  but  Dante 
is  always  alert  and  concentrated  on  his  task,  always 
lord  of  his  material.  It  is  so  from  the  first  line  of  the 
first  canto,  and  so  it  continues. 

To  appreciate  his  jJoetry,  his  art  and  his  power  of 
combining  allegory  and  story,  one  need  but  read  the 
beautiful  j)assage  in  the  second  canto,  in  which 
Dante,  by  drawing  down  to  the  confines  of  Hell  the 
glorious  light  of  Paradise,  emphasizes  the  blackness 
of  the  abode  of  sinners.  Virgil  tells  Dante  how 
Beatrice  sent  him  to  rescue  him: 

lo  era  tra  color,  che  son  sospesi, 
e  donna  nii  chiam6  beata  e  hella, 
tal,  che  di  coiriandarf  io  la  rirhicsi. 


OTHER    ASPECTS    OF    THE    INFERNO     89 

Lucevan  gli  occhi  suoi  piu  che  la  stella; 

e  coniincioinnii  a  dir  soave  e  plana, 

con  angelica  voce,  in  sua  favella: 
"O  anima  cortese  Mantovana, 

di  cui  la  fama  ancor  ncl  mondo  dura, 

e  durera  quanto  il  moto  lontana ! 
I'amico  mio,  e  non  della  ventura, 

nella  diserta  piaggla  e  impedito 

si  nel  cammin,  che  volto  e  per  paura; 
temo  che  non  sia  gia  si  smarrito, 

cli'io  mi  sia  tardi  al  soccorso  levata, 

per  quel  ch'io  ho  di  lui  nel  Cielo  udito. 
Or  muovi,  e  con  la  tua  parola  ornata, 

e  con  ci6,  ch'  e  mestieri  al  suo  campare, 

I'aiuta  si,  ch'io  ne  sia  consolata. 
Jo  son  Beatrice,  che  ti  faccio  andare; 

vegno  di  loco,  ove  tornar  dislo, 

amor  mi  mosse,  che  mi  fa  parlare. 


Donna  h  gentil  nel  Ciel,  che  si  compiange 
di  questo  impedimento,  ov'  io  ti  mando, 
si  che  duro  giudizio  lassu   frange. 

Questa  ciiiese  Lucia  in  suo  dimando, 
e  disse:  'Or  ha  bisogno  il  tuo  fedele 
di  te,  ed  io  a  te  Io  raccomando.' 

Lucia,  nimica  di  ciascun  crudele, 

si  mosse,  e  venne  al  loco  dov'  io  era, 
che  mi  sedea  con  I'antica  Rachele. 

Disse:  'Beatrice,  loda  di  Dio  vera 
che  non  soccorri  quei  che  t'am6  tanto, 
che  uscio  per  te  della  volgare  schiera? 

Non  odi  tu  la  pieta  del  suo  pianto? 
Non  vedi  tu  la  morte  che  il  comballe 
su  la  fiumana,  ove  il  mar  non  ha  vanto?' 

Al  mondo  non  fur  mai  persone  ratte 
a  far  lor  pro,  ne  a  fuggir  lor  danno, 
com'io,  dopo  cotai  parole  fatte. 


90  DANTE 

venni  quaggiix  dal  mio  beato  scanno, 
fidandonii  del  tuo  parlare  onesto, 
die  onora  te,  e  quel  clie  udito  Thanno." 

Poscia  die  ni'ebbe  ragioriato  questo, 
gli  ocdii  lucenti  lagriinando   volse; 
per  che  mi  fece  del  venir  piii  presto; 

e  venni  a  te  cosi,  com'  ella  volse; 
dinanzi  a  quella  fiera  ti  levai, 
die  del  bel  nionte  il  corto  andar  ti  tolse. 

Among  the  intermediate  souls  I  was, 

when  me  a  Lady  called,  so  beautiful 

and  hajipy,  that  I  begged  her  to  command. 

Her  eyes  were  shining  brighter  than  a  star, 

when  sweetly  and  softly  she  began  to  say, 

as  with  an  angel's  voice  slie  spoke  to  me: 

"O  courteous  Mantuan  spirit,  thou  whose  fame 

is  still  enduring  in  the  world  above, 

and  will  endure  as  long  as  lasts  the  world, 

a  friend  of  mine,  l)ut  not  a  friend  of  Fortune, 

is  on  his  Journey  o'er  the  lonely  slope 

obstructed  so,  that  he  hath  turned  through  fear; 

and,  from  what  I  have  heard  of  him  in  Heaven, 

I  fear  lest  he  may  now  have  strayed  so  far, 

that  I  have  risen  too  late  to  give  him  help. 

Bestir  thee,  then,  and  with  thy  finished  speech, 

and  with  whatever  his  esca{)e  may  need, 

assist  him  so  that  I  may  be  consoled. 

I,  who  now  have  thee  go,  am  Beatrice; 

thence  come  I,  whither  I  would  fain  return; 

t'was  love  that  moved  me,  love  that  makes  me  speak. 

There  is  a  Gentle  I.ady  up  in  Heaven, 
wlio  grieves  so  at  this  check,  whereto  I  send  thee, 
that  broken  is  stern  judgment  there  above. 
She  called  Lucia  in  her  prayer,  and  said: 
'Now  hath  thy  faithful  servant  need  of  thee, 
and   I,  too,  recommend  him   to  thy  care.' 
Lucia,  hostile  to  all  cruelty. 


OTHER    ASPECTS    OF    THE    INFERNO     91 

set  forth  thereat,  and  came  unto  the  ])lace, 
where  I  with  ancient  Rachel  had  my  seat. 
'Why,  Beatrice,'  she  said,  'true  Praise  of  God, 
dost  thou  not  succour  him  who  loved  thee  so, 
that  for  thy  sake  he  left  the  conunon  herd? 
Dost  thou  not  hear  the  anguish  of  his  cry? 
See'st  not  the  death  that  fights  him  on  the  flood, 
o'er  which  the  sea  availeth  not  to   hoast?' 
Ne'er  were  there  any  in  the  world  so  swift 
to  seek  their  profit  and  avoid  their  loss, 
as  I,  after  such  words  as  these  were  uttered, 
descended  hither  from  my  blessed  seat, 
confiding  in  that  noble  speech  of  thine, 
which  honors  thee  and  whosoe'er  has  heard  it." 
Then,  after  she  had  spoken  to  me  thus, 
weeping  she   turned  her  shining  eyes  away; 
which  made  me  hasten  all  the  more  to  come; 
and,  even  as  she  wished,  I  came  to  thee, 
and  led  thee  from  the  presence  of  the  beast, 
wnich  robbed  thee  of  the  fair  Mount's  short  approach. 
Inf.  II,  53-72,  94-120,  Langdox 

On  the  surface  Dante  is  often  subtle,  scholastic, 
hairsplitting,  so  that  the  shell  of  the  Commedia  be- 
comes crabbed  and  hieroglyphic;  and  that  is  why 
there  are  so  many  commentaries ;  but  every  now  and 
then,  underneath  this  mediaeval  casing,  his  passion 
for  righteousness  and  his  poetic  soul  rise  up  in  their 
strength,  bursting  through  obsolete  science,  outworn 
theology,  and  forgotten  history,  as  Samson  burst  free 
from  the  bondage  of  green  withes,  and  embody 
themselves  in  immortal  verse. 


CHAPTKR     IX 

THE    PURGATORIO 

GEORGE  FOX,  the  founder  of  the  Quakers, 
in  liis  journal  says:  "I  saw  that  there  was  an 
ocean  of  darkness  and  death ;  but  an  infinite 
ocean  of  light  and  love,  wliich  flowed  over  the  ocean 
of  darkness."  This  is  also  Dante's  experience,  light 
above  darkness,  and  the  experience  of  almost  every 
man  who  seeks  for  spiritual  life,  however  different 
the  words  may  be  in  wliich  different  men  clothe 
their  experiences.  Dante  had  seen  spiritual  darkness 
and  spiritual  death,  and  now  he  perceived  the 
radiance  of  spiritual  light  and  sj^iritual  love. 

The  literal  Mount  of  Purgatory  is  on  an  island  on 
the  side  of  the  earth  opposite  Jerusalem ,  this  island 
is  encircled  by  the  sea  upon  which  the  adventurous 
Ulysses  and  his  mariners  were  drowned.  The  shore 
and  the  lower  slopes  of  the  mountain  are  but  ap- 
proaches, or  ante-Purgatory,  for  Purgatory  itself  is 
the  main  ascent.  Round  and  round  the  mountain, 
mounting  by  steep  stairs  from  ledge  to  ledge,  the 
rugged  path  slowly  climbs.  On  different  ledges, 
different  sins  are  expiated  in  the  order  of  their 
gravity, — pride,  envy,  anger,  sloth,  avarice,  glut- 
tony, and  sensuality.  At  last,  having  reached  the 
top,  the  pilgrim,  purified  and  washed  clean,  even  of 


P  ull  G  A  T  OHIO  93 

the  memory  of  liis  sins,  in  the  river  Lethe,  enters 
into  the  Earthly  Paradise,  the  liome  of  innocence. 

Seekers  after  the  spiritual  life  want  to  know  from 
Dante's  experience  how  they,  too,  can  pass  from  sin 
into  the  state  of  blessedness,  how  they  shall  learn  to 
mount  upwards,  who  or  what  v/ill  be  their  helpers, 
and  whence  shall  come  their  strength.  Therefore, 
the  allegory  ratlier  than  the  literal  narrative  is  our 
immediate  concern,  so  let  us  follow  the  allegory. 

At  the  opening  of  the  first  canto  the  poet  says: 

E  cantero  di  quel  secoiido  regno, 
dove  I'uniano  spirito  si  purga 
e  di  salire  al  ciel  diventa  degno. 

And  I  will  sing  of  that  second  kingdom 
Where  the  human   soul  is  jiurified 
And   becomes   worthy   to   mount   to    Heaven. 

Purg.   1,  4-6 

The  essence  of  Hell  is  the  darkness  that  is  caused 
by  the  complete  absence  of  God;  whereas  in  Purga- 
tory the  light  of  God  shines  roundabout.  No  sooner 
has  Dante  emerged  from  tlie  darkness  of  sin  than 
his  soul  is  bathed  by  this  light; 

Dolce  color   d'oriental  zaffiro 

che  s'  accoglieva  nel  sereno  asj)etto 

deir  aer  puro  .    .    . 
agli  occhi  miei  ricominci5  diletto, 

tosto  ch'  i'  uscii  fuor  dell'  aura  morta. 

Sweet  color  of  orient  sapphire 

That  was  deepening  in  the  serene  aspect 
Of  the  stainless  air  .    .    . 

To  my  eyes  brought  back  delight, 

As  soon  as  I  had  issued  forth  from  the  dead  air. 

Ih.  13-17 


94  DANTE 

This  is  the  radiance  of  joy  on  abandoning  sin.  So 
St.  Augustine,  emerging  from  the  follies  of  his  youth, 
says:  "Into  my  heart  I  entered  and  with  the  eyes  of 
my  soul  I  saw  above  .  .  .  the  unchangeable  IJght. 
.  .  .  He  that  knoweth  Truth^  knoweth  that  light,  and 
he  that  knoweth  that  light,  knoweth  eternity"  (Conf. 
Book  VII,  ch.  X). 

Light  is  the  great  gift  of  God  to  those  that  turn 
towards  Him;  that  light  illumines  the  penitents  on 
their  way  up  the  mountain,  and  when  it  is  not  shin- 
ing they  cannot  see  to  go; 

andar   su    di    notte    non    si    ])uote, 

There  is   no  going  up  I)y   night. 

Purg.  VII,  44 

Besides  light,  Avhich  gives  color  and  joy  to  all  things 
on  the  purifying  way,  there  is  another  ripening  and 
mellowing  influence,  the  hope  of  peace;  and,  as  on 
earth  the  wishing  of  peace — Pax  tihi.  Pax  huic 
domo — was  the  familiar  salutation  enjoined  by 
Christ  to  His  apostles,  so  now  to  the  repentant  spirit 
on  its  upward  way  this  hope  comes  like  a  divine 
greeting  from  Christ  Himself.  To  Dante  there  was 
music  in  the  word;  and  no  other  that  he  uses  is  so 
charged  with  jiathos.  In  the  Inferno,  Francesca  da 
Rimini,  whirled  along  forever  by  the  infernal  blast, 
stirs  our  compassion  to  its  depths  by  her  unconscious 
envy  of  the  river  tliat  can  find  peace  at  last: 

Siede  \;i  terra,  dove  nata  fui, 

su  la  marina  dove   il   Po  discende 
per  aver  pace 


P  U  R  G  A  T  O  R  I  O  95 

The  town  where  I  was  born  sits  on  the  shore, 
Whither  the  Po  descends  to  be  at  peace. 

Inf.  V,  97-99 

It  is  the  episode  of  Dante's  longing  for  peace  that 
gives  verisimilitude  to  the  Fra  Ilario  letter.  And  in  the 
De  Monarchia,  Dante  says :  "Patet  quod  genus  hu- 
manum  in  quiete  sive  tranquillitate  pads  ad  proprium 
suum  opus,  quod  fere  divinum  est  (^juxta  illud:  Mi- 
nuisli  eum  paulo  minus  ah  angelis),  liberrime  atque 
facillime  se  hahet.  Unde  manifestum  est,  quod  pax 
universalis  est  optimum  eorum,  quod  ad  nostram 
beatitudinem  ordinantur.  Ilinc  est,  quod  pastoribus  de 
sursum  sonuit,  non  divitiae,  non  voluptates,  non  ho- 
nores,  non  longitudo  vitae,  non  sanitas,  non  rohur,non 
pulchritudoj  sed  pax.  Inquit  enim  coelestis  militia: 
'Gloria  in  altissimis  Deo,  et  in  terra  pax  hominibus 
bonae  voluntatis.'  Hinc  etiam  'Pax  vohis,'  Salus 
hominum  salutabat.  Decebat  enim  summum  Salva- 
torem,  summam  sahitationem  exprimere." — "It  is  evi- 
dent that  in  the  quiet  or  tranquillity  of  peace  the 
human  race  is  most  freely  and  favorably  disposed 
towards  the  work  proper  to  it  (which  is  almost 
divine,  even  as  it  is  said  'Thou  hast  made  him  a 
little  lower  than  the  angels').  Whence  it  is  manifest 
that  universal  peace  is  the  best  of  all  those  things 
which  are  ordained  for  our  blessedness.  And  that  is 
why  there  rang  out  to  the  shepherds  from  on  high, 
not  riches,  not  pleasures,  not  honours,  not  length  of 
life,  not  health,  not  strength,  not  beauty,  but  peace. 
For  the  celestial  soldiery  proclaims,  'Glory  to  God 
in  the  highest;  and,  on  earth,  peace  to  men  of  good 


96  DANTE 

will.'  Hence  also,  'Peace  be  with  you'  was  the  salu- 
tation of  him  who  was  the  salvation  of  man.  For  it 
was  meet  that  the  supreme  saviour  should  utter 
the  supreme  salutation"  (First  Book,  Ch.  IV,  Tem- 
ple Classics). 

In  Purgatory  this  hope  of  peace  is  a  presentiment 
of  Paradise,  as  sweet  odors  from  shore  are  wafted 
out  over  the  tumultuous  ocean.  In  Paradise  the  soul 
is   at   one   with   God   and  therefore   there   is    perfect 

C peace ;  nevertheless,  wherever  God's  will  is  done, 
even  in  the  pains  of  Purgatory,  there  is  peace, 
though  not  the  perfect  peace  that  comes  when  His 
will  is  done  perfectly.  And,  while  Francesca's  allusion 
to  peace  in  the  Inferno  is  full  of  despair,  the  refer- 
ences in  the  Purgatorio  are  all  full  of  hope.  For 
instance,  before  the  two  poets  find  the  entrance  to 
Purgatory,  and  are  wandering  about  the  region 
below,  Virgil  asks  the  way  of  spirits  whom  he  sees, 

per    quella    pace 
ch'io  credo  che  ])er  voi  tutti  si  aspetti, 

l)y  that  peace 
which    I    believe   you   all   await, 

Purff.  Ill,  74-75 

And  Dante  utters  the  word  as  the  strongest  assev- 
eration : 

io  far6  per  quella  j)ace, 

che,  retro  ai  piedi  di  si  fatta  giiida, 

di  mondo  in  mondo  cercar  mi  si  face. 

I  will  for  that  peace'  sake 
Which,  close  upon  the  steps  of  such  a  g^uide, 
From  world  to  world  draws  me  to  follow  it. 

Purg.  V,  61-63 


PURGATORIO  97 

So,  too,  when  the  poet  Statius  meets  them,  his 
greeting  is: 

Frati  miei,  Die  vi  dea  pace, 

My  brothers,  God  give  you  peace, 

Purg.  XXI,  13 

And  Virgil  returns  the  wish;  and  to  another  com- 
pany of  spirits,  Dante  says : 

O    anime    sicure 
d'  aver,  quando  che  sia,  di  pace  stato, 

O  souls,  sure  to  obtain, 
Whenever  it  may  be,  the  state  of  peace. 

Purg.  XXVI,  54 

Virgil,  also,  in  sj^eaking  of  the  lessons  of  Purgatory 
calls  them 

acque  della  pace 
che  dair  eterno  fonte  son  diffuse. 

Waters  of  peace 
That    from    the    Eternal    Fount    are    poured    forth, 

Purg.  XV,  131-133 

And  the  prayer,  "O  Lamb  of  God,  who  takest 
away  the  sins  of  the  world,  grant  us  Thy  peace" 
is  uttered  by  the  spirits  who  expiate  the  sin  of  wrath 
{Purg.  Xvi,  19). 

To  take  away  sin  and  to  bestow  peace  are  one  and 
the  same  thing;  it  is  for  this  that  Purgatory  is  estab- 
lished. And,  therefore,  when  having  2:)assed  through 
Purgatory,  the  two  pilgrims  reach  the  Terrestrial 
Paradise,  Virgil  says  to  Dante: 


98  DAN  T  E 

QuL'l  dolce  pome,  die  per  tanti  rami 
cercando  va  la  cura  dei  mortali, 
oggi  porra  in  pace  le  tue  fami. 

That  sweet   fruit,   for   which   on   many   boughs 
manivind  goes  seeking  anxiously, 
today  will  grant  tliy  hunger  ])cace. 

Purg.  XXVII,  115-117 

The  fruit  Virgil  sjjeaks  of  is  the  peace  of  God,  which 
will  come,  as  the  Psalmist  says,  to  the  man  purified 
from  all  guile:  "Mark  the  perfect  man,  and  behold 
the  upright,  for  the  end  of  that  man  is  peace" 
(Psalm  xxxvii,  37). 

On  its  journey  up  the  mountain,  lighted  by  the 
divine  light  and  cheered  by  the  prospect  of  the  peace 
of  God,  the  soul  is  purified.  The  method  of  jDurifi- 
cation  is  set  out  in  detail,  for  Dante  is  a  practical 
preacher.  First  the  pilgrim  must  start  upon  his  way 
with  Fortitude,  Temperance,  Prudence  and  Justice, 
shining  like  a  constellation  above  him  (Purg.  I,  23), 
he  must  also  wash  oif  the  stains  of  sin  (76.  128-129)  ; 
but  these  are  minor  matters:  the  four  great  helps 
to  climb  the  mountain  are  four  sorts  of  spiritual 
discii)line — Effort,  Prayer,  Divine  Grace,  and  Pain. 
Purgatory  is  a  steep  ascent;  the  road  is  hard  and 
dolorous.  To  the  ordinary  man  effort  is  the  help 
nearest  at  hand.  By  j)utting  forth  his  strength  he 
draws  himself  back  from  temptation,  from  the 
appetites  of  the  flesh,  from  the  vanities  of  the  world, 
from  hardness  of  heart,  from  all  ignoble  satisfaction 
in  unworthy  things.  He  practices  self-denial,  he 
ordains    self-discipline;    and,   little   by   little,   setting 


PURGATORIO  99 

his  teeth  and  clenching  his  fists,  by  daily  taking 
heed,  by  contrivances  and  devices  to  outwit  his  old 
self,  he  fashions  new  habits,  and  bursts  at  last  the  \y< 
bonds  of  his  servitude  and  enters  into  the  perfect 
freedom  of  the  service  of  God; — liberta  va  cercando, 
he  goes  in  quest  of  freedom  (Purg.  I,  71),  as  Dante 
puts  it. 

The  effort  necessary  to  climb,  Dante  indicates  by 
describing  how  steep  the  path  is : 

Noi  divenininio  intanto  al  pie  del  monte: 

quivi  trovaninio  la  roccia  si  erta, 

che  indarno  vi  sarien  le  gainl>e  pronte. 
Tra  Lerici  e  Turbia,  la  piii  diserta, 

la  piu  romita  via  e  una  scala, 

verso  di  quella,  agevole  ed  aperta. 

Meantime  we  came  unto  the  mountain's  foot: 

And  here  we  found  the  crag  so  sheer 

That  agile  legs  would  not  avail  a  man. 
Compared  with  this  the  wildest,  loneliest  way, 

From  I.erici  to  Turbia,  is  like  a  stair 

Ample  and  easy. 

Purg.  Ill,  46-51 

Vassi  in  Sanleo,  e  discendesi  in  Noli; 
montasi  su  Bismantova  in  cacume 
con  esso  in  pie:  ma  qui  convien  ch'  uom  voli; 

dico  con  I'ali  snelle  e  con  le  piume 
del  gran  disio. 

A  man  can  walk  at  Sanleo  and  go  down  at  Noli, 
He  can  climb  to  the  very  top  of  Bismantova, 
Upon  his  feet;  but  here  a  man  must  fly; 

I  mean  with  the  swift  wings  and  pinions 
Of  a  great  desire. 

Purg.  IV,  25-29 


100  DANTE 

But  the  more  the  efforts  are  repeated  the  easier  they 

become. 

Qucsta  montagna  e  tale, 
che  senipre  al  cominciar  tli  sotto  e   grave, 
E  quanto  uorn  piu  va  su,  e  men  fa  male. 

Such  is  this  mountain, 
That  always  the  beginning  down  below 
Is  hard,  but  tiie  toil  lessens  as  you  rise. 

Purg.  IV,  88-90 

C' ■  The  second  help  is  prayer.  Praj^er  is  almost  an  in- 
stinctive reaction  from  a  consciousness  of  sin.  St. 
John  of  the  Cross  says:  "Broken  with  grief,  stricken 
by  a  fear  that  penetrates  to  the  bottom  of  the  heart 
at  sight  of  the  danger  she  is  in  of  being  lost,  the  soul 
renounces  all  worldly  things ;  she  forsakes  all  else, 
and  delaying  not  for  a  day,  not  for  an  hour,  with  a 
heart  full  of  groanings,  already  wounded  by  the 
divine  love,  she  begins  to  call  upon  her  Beloved" 
(Canticle  of  the  Spirit,  Sec.  1).  The  experience  of 
humanity  testifies  that  the  mind,  by  fixing  its  gaze 
upon  some  selected  symbol  of  the  highest  good, 
whether     in     silent     contemplation     or     with     spoken 

,  words,  is  steadied  and  acquires  a  poise,  and  from 
this  steadiness  and  poise  gains  strength,  so  that  it  is 
enabled  to  slough  off  old  hahits  and  jiut  on  new;  and 
shift  the  center  rpund  which  revolves  its  world  of 
hopes  and  fears.^'he  range  of  prayer  is  very  great, 
from  the  formal  movements  of  the  logical  mind, 
through  invocation,  confession,  and  petition,  or  from 
the  imfjctuous  cry  of  the  hungry  heart  for  something 
vast  and  abiding,  all  the  way  to  silent  adoration,  or 
to   the   mental    endeavor,   by    subtle   psychical    prac- 


PURGATORIO  101 

tices,  to  open  the  windows  of  the  soul  upon  some 
starry  skyADraw  it  out  into  a  litany  or  compress 
it  to  a  cry,  the  yearning  is  the  same:  Augusta  est 
domus  animae  meae,  quo  venias  ad  earn;  dilatetur  abs 
te.  Ruinosa  est;  refice  earn.  Hahet  quae  offendant 
oculos  tuos,  fateor  et  scio.  Sed  quis  mundabit  earn? 
Aut  cui  alteri  praeter  te  clamabo?  Ab  occultis  vieis 
munda  me,  Domine,  et  ab  alienis  parce  servo  tuo. — 
Narrow  is  the  house  of  my  soul  for  Thee  to  enter  in ; 
make  Thou  it  wide.  It  lies  in  ruins;  build  Thou  it  up. 
I  confess,  I  know,  that  there  is  that  within  it  which 
will  offend  Thine  eyes,  But  who  shall  cleanse  it? 
Or,  to  whom  but  Thee  shall  I  cry.^  Cleanse  Thou  me 
from  secret  sin,  O  Lord,  and  keep  back  Thy  servant 
from  presumptuous  faults"  (St.  Augustine's  Conf. 
Book   I,  Ch.   5). 

The  necessity  of  prayer  Dante  reiterates.  In  the 
precincts  outside  of  Purgatory  an  angel  approaches, 
and  Virgil  cries  out: 

Fa,  fa  che  le  ginocchia  call; 
ecco  r Angel  di  Die:  piega  le  niani: 

Bend,  bend  thy  knees; 
Behold  the  angel  of  (Jod,  fold  thy  hands. 

Purg.  II,  28-29 

At  the  gate  of  Purgatory  they  find  another  angel 
sitting.  Virgil  again  bids  Dante  pray: 

"Chiedi 
uniilemente  che  il  serrame  scioglia." 
Divoto  mi  gittai  a'  santi  piedi; 
misericordia  chiesi  che  m'aprisse. 


102  D  ANTE 

"Beg 

Humbly  that  he  undo  the  lock." 

Devoutly  I  threw  myself  at  his  holy  feet; 

And   begged,  for   mercy's  sake,   that  he  would 

open  to  me. 

I'urg.  IX,  108-110 

On  the  lowest  ledge  of  Purgatory,  the  proud  in  aid 
of  penitence  repeat  the  Lord's  prayer  {Purg.  XI, 
1-21);  otlier  spirits  pray  tliat  the  living  may  not 
omit  praying  for  them  {Purg.  VI,  26).  And  elsewhere 
a  litany  (XIII,  50-51),  psalms  (XXIII,  11),  hymns 
(XXV,  121),  and  the  beatitudes  (XII,  110,  XV,  38, 
etc.)  are  sung.  And,  with  transparent  allegory,  Virgil 
prays  to  the  sun: 

O  dolce  lume,  a  cui  fidanza  i'  entro 
per  lo  nuovo  cammin,  tu  ne  conducl. 

O  sweet  light,  through  trust  in  which   I   enter 
In  this  unknown  way,  lead  thou  us  on. 

Purg.  XIII,  1()-17 

Prayer  is  the  conscious  yearning  of  the  soul ;  but 
deeper  than  ])rayer,  more  accomplishing  than  per- 
V  sonal  effort,  are  the  workings  of  what  theologians 
call  the  grace  of  God.  Down  in  that  deep,  mysterious 
self,  whose  beginning  and  end  we  do  not  know, 
strange  processes  take  place;  and,  now  and  again, 
as  if  a  loadstone  heaved  its  top  above  the  surface 
of  that  dim,  vast  unconsciousness,  and  swung  the 
needle  of  our  compass  north  to  south,  some  force 
shoots  up  and  readjusts  all  our  life.  "In  the  hidden 
part  Thou  shalt  make  me  to  know  wisdom"  (Psalm 
li,  6).  There  conversions  take  place;  there  Paul  was 
caught  up  to  the  third  heaven ;  there  I^uther  under- 
went  his   illumination   that   "The   just   shall    live   by 


PURGATORIO  103 

faith";  there  St.  Augustine  heard  the  voice  say 
"Tolle,  lege";  there  Socrates  was  visited  by  his 
familiar  spirit ;  there  Pascal  had  his  revelation  of  fire ; 
there  St.  Francis  received  the  stigmata;  and  there 
many  others,  less  famous^  have  been  "touched  by 
the  hand  of  God."  Down  in  these  depths  (it  seems) 
a  word,  a  touch,  a  look,  lies  like  a  germinating  seed, 
swells  and  grows,  then  blossoms  and  bears,  until  at 
last  our  waking  consciousness  that  ministers  to 
daily  needs,  inwardly  roused,  stretches  forth  its 
hand,  plucks  the  fruit,  and  finds  that  it  holds  the 
fruit  of  the  tree  of  life.  Call  them  subliminal,  tran- 
scendental, real,  mystic,  neurasthenic,  hysterical,  or 
what  you  will^  these  processes  take  place  in  modes 
still  dark  to  human  understanding.  All  that  is  certain 
is  that  a  change  takes  place.  The  animal  instinct 
of  self-preservation  and  its  fellow  impulses  no  longer 
control  the  soul's  destiny,  but  new  forces,  inaudible, 
invisible,  intangible,  lead  it  on  a  mysterious  path, 
while  outsiders  look  on  and  marvel ;  as  when  deaf 
old  people  seeing  children  in  a  room  begin  dancing 
to  music  played  in  the  street,  hearing  nothing, 
think  them  wayward  and  fantastic. 

When  the  soul  feels  this  great  shift  of  the  center 
of  spiritual  gravity,  it  explains  the  shock  as  best  it 
may.  Formerly  the  terms  of  explanation  were  chiefly 
theological,  now  they  are  taken  from  psychology. 
George  Fox  says:  "When  all  my  hopes  in  [priests 
and  preachers]  and  in  all  men  were  gone,  so  that 
I  had  nothing  outwardly  to  help  me,  nor  could  I  tell 
what  to  do,  then,  oh  then,  I  heard  a  voice  which 
said,  'There  is  one,  even  Christ  Jesus,  that  can  speak 


104  DANTE 

to  thy  condition';  and  when  I  heard  it  my  heart  did 
leap  for  joy"  (^Journal,  Ch.  I).  And  in  the  biograpliy 
of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  it  is  written:  "Being  led  by 
the  spirit  St.  Francis  went  in  [to  the  Church  of 
S.  Damiano]  to  pray;  and  he  fell  down  before  the 
crucifix  in  devout  supplication,  and  having  been 
smitten  by  unwonted  visitations,  found  himself 
another  man  than  lie  who  had  gone  in"  (quoted  in 
Mysticism,  E.  Underbill,  p.  218).  And  St.  Catherine 
of  Siena,  after  a  vision  in  which  Christ  seemed  to 
take  her  heart  from  her  breast  and  put  His  there  in 
its  stead,  said  to  her  confessor:  "Do  you  not  see. 
Father,  that  I  am  no  longer  the  person  I  was,  but 
that  I  am  changed  into  some  one  else?  .  .  .  Oh, 
Father,  I  firmly  believe  that  if  any  one  should  feel 
the  things  that  I  feel  within,  no  one  is  so  hard- 
hearted, but  he  would  become  softened,  none  so 
proud  but  he  would  become  humble.  .  .  .  My  mind 
is  in  such  a  state  of  joy  and  jubilee  that  I  am  amazed 
how  my  soul  can  stay  in  my  body.  .  .  .  This  ardor 
])roduces  in  my  mind  a  renewal  of  innocence  and 
humility,  as  if  I  had  gone  back  to  be  four  or  five 
years  old.  Besides  it  has  kindled  such  love  of  my 
neighbor,  that  for  any  neighbor  I  would  voluntarily 
and  with  great  j)lcasure  in  my  heart  and  joy  in  my 
mind,  give  uj)  my  mortal  life"  {Vita,  Part  II,  Ch.  VI, 
Sec.  4). 

Madame  Guyon,  one  of  the  famous  mystics,  tells 
how  she  had  been  seeking  the  presence  of  God  in 
vain,  and  how  her  confessor  had  said  to  her: 
"Madam,  you  are  seeking  without,  that  which  you 
have  within.  Accustom  yourself  to  seek  God  in  your 


P  U  R  G  A  T  O  R  I  O  105 

own  heart,  and  you  will  find  him" ;  these  words,  she 
says,  "were  as  an  arrow,  which  pierced  my  soul 
through  and  through.  I  felt  in  this  moment  a  pro- 
found wound,  which  was  full  of  delight  and  of  love 
— a  wound  so  sweet  that  I  desire  it  might  never 
heal"  (quoted  in  Mysticism,  E.  Underhill,  pp.  222- 
223).  And  Brother  Lawrence  said  that  his  conver- 
sion took  place  in  this  manner:  "That  in  the  winter, 
seeing  a  tree  stripped  of  its  leaves,  and  considering 
that  within  a  little  time  the  leaves  would  be  renewed, 
and  after  that  the  flowers  and  fruit  appear,  he  re- 
ceived a  high  view  of  the  providence  and  power  of 
God,  which  has  never  been  effaced  from  his  soul, 
and  that  this  view  had  perfectly  set  him  loose  from 
the  world"   {Brother  La-wrence,  First  Conversation). 

These  witnesses,  and  a  multitude  of  others,  con- 
firm what  Emerson  says:  "There  is  a  difference  be- 
tween one  and  another  hour  of  life,  in  their  authority 
and  subsequent  effect.  Our  faith  comes  in  moments. 
.  .  .  Yet  there  is  a  depth  in  those  brief  moments 
which  constrains  us  to  ascribe  more  reality  to  them 
than  to  all  other  experiences"  {The  Over-soul) . 

It  may  be  that  human  nature  is  of  itself  pure  and 
holy,  and  that,  when  the  animal  personality  is 
shaken  off,  it  loses  its  warped  and  corrupt  shapeless- 
ness  and  reassumes  its  natural  beauty ;  or,  it  may  be 
that  there  is  a  spiritual  order  that  lies  over  our 
carnal  order,  as  life  lies  over  the  inorganic  world, 
and  that  these  mysterious  forces  are  "high  in- 
stincts" from  that  upper  region ;  or,  it  may  be,  as 
the  Apostle  puts  it,  that  "God's  love  is  shed  abroad 
in    our    hearts    by   the    Holy    Ghost"    (Rom.    v,    5). 


106  DANTE 

Tolstoi,  the  greatest  religious  teacher  of  our  time, 
says :  "What  takes  place  is  similar  to  what  happens  in 
the  material  world  at  every  birth.  The  fruit  is  not 
born  because  it  wants  to  be  born,  because  it  is  better 
for  it  to  be  born,  and  because  it  knows  that  it  is  good 
to  be  born,  but  because  it  is  nature,  and  it  cannot 
continue  its  former  existence;  it  is  compelled  to  sur- 
render to  the  new  life,  not  so  much  because  the  new 
life  calls  it,  as  because  the  possibility  of  the  former 
existence  is  destroyed.  .  .  .  What  takes  place  is 
precisely  what  happens  at  the  inception  of  every- 
thing: the  same  destruction  of  the  seed,  of  the  pre- 
vious form  of  life,  and  the  appearance  of  a  new 
growth;  the  same  seeming  struggle  of  the  older  form 
of  the  decomposing  seed  and  the  increase  of  the  new 
growth,  and  the  same  nutrition  of  the  new  growtli 
at  the  expense  of  the  decomposing  seed.  .  .  .  We 
cannot  see  the  birth  of  the  new  essence,  the  new 
relation  of  the  rational  consciousness  [this  is  his 
term  for  the  new  directing  power]  to  the  animal, 
just  as  the  seed  cannot  see  the  growth  of  its  stalk. 
Wlien  the  rational  consciousness  comes  out  of  its 
concealed  position  and  is  made  manifest  for  us,  it 
seems  to  us  that  we  are  experiencing  a  contradiction. 
But  there  is  no  contradiction,  just  as  there  is  none  in 
the  sprouting  seed.  In  the  sprouting  seed,  we  see 
only  that  life,  which  before  was  in  the  integument 
of  the  seed,  is  now  in  its  sprout.  Even  so  there  is  no 
contradiction  in  man  with  his  awakened  rational 
consciousness,  but  only  the  birth  of  a  new  being,  of 
a  new  relation  of  the  rational  consciousness  to  the 
animal"  (On  Life,  Ch.  IX). 


PURGATORIO  107 

The  coming  of  this  new  life  is  but  another  name 
for  the  operation  of  grace.  For  Dante  the  divine 
grace  is  always  at  work.  It  was  of  divine  grace  that 
the  Virgin  Mary  bestirred  Lucia  to  send  Beatrice 
to  Dante's  rescue,  when  he  was  lost  in  the  wild 
wood.  The  commentators  delight  in  theological 
niceties,  and  therefore  give  several  names — divine  ,^ 
mercy,  illuminating  grace,  theology— to  divine  grace 
as  it  flows  down  from  its  source,  like  geographers 
who  give  different  names  to  a  river,  in  its  upper 
reaches,  in  its  main  channel,  and  at  its  mouth; 
but,  in  truth,  grace  is  the  going  forth  of  power  from  / 
the  deeps  of  life,  directly  or  indirectly,  to  the  in- 
dividual soul  that  needs  it. 

In  the  Purgatorio  the  operation  of  grace  is  plainly         / 
visible.  At  the  very  beginning  of  Dante's  journey  in     / 
ante-Purgatory,  Cato,  the  warder,   stops  them,  until 
Virgil  tells  him  that  Beatrice  has  bidden  them  make 
the  journey: 

Deir  alto  sccnde  virtii  che  in'aiuta, 

From  on  high  comes  down  the  power  that  aids  me. 

Pur  (J.  I,  68 

And  when  Dante  has  only  gone  part  way  to  Purga- 
tory proper,  with  still  a  steep  stretch  to  go,  he  lies 
down  and  sleeps,  and  on  waking  finds  that  he  has 
been  carried  up  to  the  very  entrance  of  Purgatory. 
Virgil  explains  how: 

Dianzi,  nell'  alba  che  precede  al  giorno, 

quando  1'  anima  tua  dentro  dormia 

sopra  li  fiori,  onde  laggiii  e  adorno, 
venne  una  donna,  e  disse:  "lo  son  Tvucia; 


./ 


108  DANTE 

lasciatenii  pigliar  cestui  che  donne, 
si  I'agevolero  per  la  sua  via" 

ella  ti  toise,  e  come  il  di  fu  chiaro 
sen  venne  suso,  ed  io  ])er  le  sue  ormc. 
Qui  ti  jioso. 

But  now,  just  at  the  dawning  that  precedes  tlie  day, 
^\'hcn  tliy  soul  lay  asleep  upon  the  flowers 
With  wiiich  the  ])lace  down  there  is  l)eautified, 

A   I-ady  came  and  said,  "I  am  Lucia, 
Let  me  jiick  up  this  slee])er  here 
And  I  will  help  him  nimbly  on  his  way." 

She  took  thee  up,  and  when  the  day  was  bright 
Came  u]>  and  laid  tiiee  here,  while  I 
Went  following  in  her  steps. 

Purff.  IX,  52-61 

And  after  Dante  has  fallen  on  his  knees  and  said  a 
prayer,  the  angel  guarding  the  gate  of  Purgatory 
unlocks  it  for  liim  to  enter.  Indeed,  in  one  sense,  the 
whole  ascent  is  a  consequence  of  the  action  of  grace, 
although  the  poet  does  not  essay  to  determine  where 
effort  and  prayer  end  and  wliere  grace  begins. 
/  Howbeit,  whether  the  pilgrim  climbs  the  Mount  of 
"^Purgatory  by  means  of  effort,  ])rayer,  or  grace,  he 
cannot  escape  the  law  of  purification  tlirough  pain. 
However  incomprehensible  that  law  is,  it  is  but  of  a 
piece  with  all  the  mystery  of  life.  We  are  aware 
of  jjhenomena  of  all  kinds  that  uprise  above  the 
horizon  of  our  consciousness  and,  after  a  brief  day, 
go  to  their  setting,  but  of  the  whence,  Avhither,  where- 
fore, we  know  nothing.  We  can  but  strive  to  discern 
the  pattern  in  the  stuff  of  life  as  it  passes,  and  in  that 


PURGATOltIO  109 

pattern  is  the  never  ending  embroidery  of  pain^J 
life  has  a  meaning,  pain  shares  in  it;  if  life  has  a 
purpose,  pain  furthers  it.  If,  as  Dante  believed, 
there  is  a  kingdom  of  God  within  us,  its  foundation 
can  only  stand  secure  where  sin  has  been  dug  up ; 
and  its  mansions  must  be  constructed  out  of  the 
consciousness,  whether  illusory  or  not,  of  a  divine 
presence,  and  pain  is  the  master  builder^This  Dante 
felt.  The  pains  which  the  penitents  undergo  on  the 
different  ledges  of  Purgatory  are  not  punishments, 
much  less  revenge ;  they  are  the  consciousness  of  sin. 
The  haughty,  who  with  swollen  self-complacency 
had  carried  their  load  of  pride,  now  that  they  are 
inspired  with  a  desire  to  mount  upward  to  the 
Highest,  feel  crushed  down  by  their  intolerable 
burden  {Purg.  Cantos  X  and  XI).  The  envious,  who 
chafed  in  displeasure  at  the  joy  of  others,  now  j^ 
realize  the  reason  that  they  did  not  see  the  beauty 
of  others'  happiness  was  because  their  own  eye- 
lids, like  those  of  young  falcons  in  training  time, 
were  sewn  together,  and  they  weep  for  the  ignominy 
of  such  blindness  (Cantos  XIII  and  XIV).  Men  of 
wrath  now  perceive  that  they  were  shut  out  from  all 
delight  by  the  black  choking  fog  of  their  own  evil 
passions,  and  they  pray  to  be  set  free.  And  so  in  the 
other  ledges.  Nevertheless,  it  is  hard  for  human 
nature  to  give  up  its  passions,  its  vices,  its  love  of 
ease;  and  the  gradual  weaning  of  the  soul,  prompted 
by  the  love  of  God,  is  fraught  with  pain.  Death  to 
sin  is  dying  in  a  familiar  part  of  oneself,  and  brings  "^ 
a  mortal  pang.  But  at  last  when  the  love  of  God 
triumphs,  and  the  soul  casts  off  her  sins,  she  mounta,- 


110  DAXTE 

up  to  her  own  lightness  and  flies  towards  her  goal 
{Purg.  XXI,  58-66). 

The  last  })ain  of  all  is  to  pass  through  fire  (Canto 
XX\'II).  This  is  the  stage  of  purification  that  pre- 
/  sents  the  simplest  and  the  most  profound  allegory. 
In  speaking  of  purification  by  spiritual  fire,  St. 
John  of  the  Cross  says:  "To  comprehend  it  we  must 
bear  in  mind  that  this  fire  of  Love,  before  it  pene- 
trates the  inner  parts  of  the  soul,  hurts  her  con- 
stantly while  it  is  destroying  and  consuming  away 
Vflie  weaknesses  which  come  from  habitual  imper- 
fections. By  so  doing  the  Holy  Ghost  disposes  the 
soul  to  unite  with  God  and  to  transform  herself  by 
love  into  Him.  The  fire  that  unites  with  the  soul 
in  the  glory  of  love,  is  the  same  that  had  beforehand 
1/  encompassed  her  about  in  order  to  purify  her.  It 
may  be  likened  to  the  fire  that  has  entered  into  the 
wood  which  it  destroys.  It  began  by  springing  upon 
it  and  hurting  it  by  its  flames;  then  it  dried  it  up 
and  expelled  all  substances  that  could  prevent  it 
from  burning;  and  at  last,  it  so  wrought  upon  it  by 
its  heat  that  it  could  enter  deep  into  the  wood  and 
transform  it  into  itself"  (I'he  Living  Fire  of  Love, 
Strojjhe  I). 

A  doubting  spirit  like  Amiel  says:  "Toujours  et 
partout  Ic  salut  est  une  torture  {The  Spirit  of  Man, 
No.  280).  But  a  believer  like  St.  Gertrude  prays: 
"Cleanse  my  soul  by  fire  from  all  the  impurities  of 
sin,  so  that  it  may  be  rendered  capable  of  receiving 
the  living  flame  of  thy  doctrines,  O  Lord,  and  that 
Thy  Holy  .Spirit,  source  of  righteousness,  may  dwell 
as  a  King  in  all  parts  of  my  soul"   {Fifth  Exercise). 


PURGATORIO  111 

These,  then,  are  the  four  great  spiritual  aids — 
Effort,  Prayer,  Divine  Grace,  and  Pain — by  which 
the  soul,  eager  to  be  good,  is  enabled  to  root  out  the 
lower  elements  of  self,  vicious  habits,  base  passions, 
loose  desires,  and  to  establish  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  within. 

Dante  himself,  when  he  hears  the  voice  of  an 
angel  say  that  they  may  not  go  farther  on  unless 
they  first  pass  through  the  fire,  draws  back.  Virgil 
tries  to  rouse  his  courage,  but  Dante  stands  immov- 
able before  the  wall  of  flame,  in  stubborn  fear.  Then 

Virgil  says: 

Or   vedi,  figlio, 
tra  Beatrice  e  te  e  questo  muro. 

Now,  look,  my  son, 
Between  Beatrice  and  you  is  yonder  wall. 

Purg.  XXVII,  35-36 

and  adds,  smiling, 

Come? 
volemci  star  di  qua? 

What? 
Do  we  wish  to  stay  upon  this  side? 

lb.  43-44 

At  this  Dante  enters  the  fire,  and  Virgil,  to  distract 
his  mind,  goes  on  talking  of  Beatrice,  saying: 

Gli    occhi    suoi    gia    veder    jnirmi. 

Already  I  seem  to  see  her  eyes. 

lb.  54 

So  they  passed  through  the  flames  and  again  climbed 
upward;  but  night  coming  on  tliey  are  forced  to  lie 


112  DANTE 

down,  on  the  stairway  where  they  are,  and  Dante 
goes  to  sleep.  When  he  awakes  in  the  morning,  they 
climb  to  the  top  of  the  stairs.  And  now  the  task  of 
Human  Reason  is  finished.  It  has  led  the  pilgrim 
to  the  Earthly  Paradise,  where  the  soul  is  innocent, 
and  from  this  time  forward,  its  guide  will  be  Divine 
Revelation.  So  Virgil  says: 

II  temporal  foco  e  reterno 
veduto  hai,  fiplio,  e  sei  venuto  in  parte 
dov'  io  per  nie  piii  oltre  non  discerno. 
Tratto  t'  ho  qui  con  infjejino  e  con  arte; 
lo  tuo  piacere  oinai  prendi  j)er  duce: 
fuor  sei  dell'  erte  vie,  fuor  sei  dell'  arte. 

Non  aspettar  mio  dir  piii,  ne  mio  cenno. 

I.ihero,  dritto  e  sano  e  tuo  arl)itrio, 

e  fallo  fora  non  fare  a  suo  scniio: 
per  ch'  io  te  sopra  te  corono  e  niitrio. 

The  temporal  fire  and  the  eternal, 

Thou  hast  seen,  my  Son,  and  art  come  there 
Where,  of  myself,  I  see  my  way  no  more. 

Here  have  I  led  thee,  in  discipline  and  reason; 

Thy  own  pood  ])leasure,  from  now  on,  take  as  guide: 
Out  of  the  steep  ways,  out  of  the  strait  ways,  art  thou 
now. 

No  more  expect  a  word  or  sign  from  me. 

Your  will  is  uj)right,  sound  and  free, 

And  not  to  follow  it  would  l)e  a  wrong. 

Wherefore  I  crown  thee  king  and  do  ordain  thee  priest  over 

thyself. 
•^  Ih.   127-142 

The  long  task  is  done,  the  Mount  of  Purgatory 
lias  been  climbed,  and  the  soul  is  now  pure-eyed 
and   fit  to  be  led  by  that  human  love  which   has  be- 


PURGATORIO  113 

come    the    truest    manifestation    of    divine    holiness, 
into  an  abiding  consciousness  of  the  presence  of  God, 
pure  e  disposto  a  salire  alle  stelle 

pure  and  ready  to  mount  up  to  the  stars. 

lb.  XXXIII,  U5 

There  are  many  powers  at  work  to  help  the  peni- 
tent on  his  purgatorial  way.  Dante  lays  stress  on 
some.  Wordsworth  says : 

Here  then  we  rest;  not  fearing  for  our  creed 
The  worst  that  human  reasoning  can  achieve. 
To  unsettle  or  perplex  it;  yet  with  pain 
Acknowledging,   and    grievous   self-reproach. 
That,  though  immovably  convinced,  we  want 
Zeal,  and  the  virtue  to  exist  by  faith 
As  soldiers  live  by  courage. 

What  then  remains? — To  seek 
Those  helps  for  his  occasions  ever  near 
Who  lacks  not  will  to  use  them;  vows,  renewed 
On  the  first  motion  of  a  holy  thought; 
Vigils  of  contemplation;  praise;  and  prayer, — 
A  stream,  which  from  the  fountain  of  the  heart 
Issuing,  however  feebly,  nowhere  flows 
Without  access  of  unexpected  strength. 
But,  above  all,  the  victory  is  most  sure 
For  him,  who,  seeking  faith  by  virtue,  strives 
To  yield  entire  submission  to  the  law 
Of  conscience, — conscience  reverenced  and  ol)eyed. 
As  God's  most  intimate  presence  in  the  soul. 
And  his  most  perfect  image  in  the  world, 
— Endeavor  thus  to  live;  these  rules  regard; 
These  helps  solicit;  and  a  steadfast  seat 
Shall  then  be  yours  among  the  happy  few 
Who  dwell  on  earth,  yet  breathe  empyreal  air. 
Sons  of  the  morning. 

The  Excursion,  Book  IV 


CHAPTER    X 

THE  HAPPY  SIDE   OF  PURGATORY 

IN  general  it  is  a  consciousness  of  sin  that  brings 
a  man  face  to  face  with  the  problem  of  good  and 
evil;  and  consciousness  of  sin  is  started  by  some 
powerful  emotion  which  sweeps  in  a  flood  over  the 
ordinary  paths  of  thouglit  and  action,  and  obliterates 
them  quite.  Perhaps  it  is  a  vision,  or  an  escape  from 
death,  or  the  loss  of  a  child,  or  the  love  of  a  maiden 
who  lives  forever  in  a  heaven  of  memory  from  which 
no  familiarity  can  drag  her  down;  some  potent  cause 
turns  the  mind  in  upon  itself  to  contemplate  the 
beauty  of  goodness  and  the  ugliness  of  sin,  to  wonder 
why  goodness  is  beautiful  and  sin  ugly,  and  what 
they  have  to  do  with  those  powers  that  move  the 
stars,  make  flowers  grow  and  build  up  all  the  pageant 
of  this  perceptible  universe,  till  by  degrees  the  mind, 
passing  on  from  thouglit  to  thought,  constructs  a 
philosophy  of  life,  and  then  persuades  the  will  to 
bring  conduct  into  accord  with  that  philosophy. 

To  enter  upon  this  stage  is  to  pass  into  the  gate  of 
/  Purgatory,  for  Purgatory  is  the  process  of  bringing 
conduct  into  conformity  with  a  belief  in  goodness. 
It  is  with  this  stage  that  Dante  the  preacher  mainly 
concerns  himself.  In  his  letter  to  Can  Grande  he 
says:    "The    branch    of    philosophy    that    regulates 


THE    HAPPY   SIDE    OF    PURGATORY   115 


[the  Commedia]  in  its  whole  and  in  its  parts,  is 
ethical,  because  the  whole  poem  was  undertaken 
not  for  speculation  but  for  practical  results"  (Epis- 
tola  X,  lines  271-275)  ;  and  it  is  the  Purgatorio  that 
depicts  how  to  attain  these  practical  results.  The 
Inferno  is  a  picture  of  life  at  its  lowest,  a  warning 
cry,  a  call  to  repentance;  the  "Preacher  of  Justice" 
denounces  the  horrors  and  loathsomeness  of  sin,  so 
that  we  all  may  profit  by  his  denunciations.  And  on 
the  other  hand,  in  the  Paradiso  he  sets  forth  the 
state  of  those  who  have  entered  into  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  presence  of  God,  in  the  hope  that  the 
picture  of  their  blessedness  shall  draw  men  from 
sin  to  righteousness.  Regarded  as  an  ethical  poem, 
therefore,  the  whole  Commedia — Inferno  and  Para- 
diso, as  well  as  the  Purgatorio — is  written  for  those 
men  and  women  who,  weary  and  ashamed  of  days 
misspent,  desire  to  live  a  spiritual  life,  and  climb  the 
Hill  of  Purgatory.  And  as  this  world,  for  the  vast 
majority  of  people,  is  neither  a  Hell  nor  a  Paradise, 
but  a  place  where  hope  and  purpose  struggle  with 
sin,  Dante's  Purgatorio  is  a  far  more  human  place 
than  Hell  below  or  Paradise  above,  and,  in  so  far 
as  we  are  concerned  with  ourselves  and  our  moral 
well-being,  interests  us  more  than  either  of  them 
does.  Hell,  the  death  of  the  soul,  frightens  us ;  we 
will  not  voluntarily  contemplate  it ;  and  Paradise, 
the  ecstasy  of  conscious  union  with  God,  as  told 
by  the  mystics,  if  not  incomprehensible  to  the  work- 
aday intellect,  lies  beyond  the  habitual  range  of  our 
sympathy.  But  ordinary  human  life,  the  drama  of 
existence,   the   effort   to   win   in   the   great   wrestling 


V 


i 


116  DAN  T  E  _^ 

match  with  low  appetites  and  unworthy  desires, 
appeals  to  us  all.  Dante  is  keenly  sensible  of  this, 
and  therefore,  in  the  Purgatorio,  so  far  as  is  consistent 
with  the  whole  scheme  of  the  poem,  he  introduces 
the  characteristic  pattern  of  human  life,  not  only  the 
suflfering  in  it,  but  also,  in  generous  measure,  its 
happiness  and  joy, — converse  with  friends,  delight 
in  nature,  in  the  rising  and  going  down  of  the  sun,  in 
birds,  in  music,  in  singing,  painting,  and  poetry,  in 
youth  and  beauty.  Rightly  to  understand  the  Pur- 
gatorio the  reader  must  appreciate  that  Dante  (terri- 
ble in  his  prophetic  mood  when  he  is  denouncing  sin, 
and  transcendental  in  his  poetic  idealism  when  he 
foresees  the  realization  of  the  command,  "Enter  thou 
into  the  joy  of  thy  Lord")  in  the  Purgatorio  is  human, 
'with  the  common  appetite  for  human  happiness  and 
for  all  pleasures  that  ennoble  men. 

The  function  of  Purgatory  in  human  life  is  to  free 
us  from  the  bondage  of  sin,  and  it  is  therefore  of 
necessity  a  painful  process.  Dante  never  attempts 
to  dodge  this  truth,  but  he  seeks  to  impress  upon 
us  that  this  process  has  a  double  aspect.  Under  one 
aspect,  the  purification  burns  out  the  corruption  of 
the  heart  as  with  a  hot  iron ;  under  the  other,  the 
selfsame  act  unfolds  tlie  bandage  from  the  eyes  and 
shows  us  the  more  delicate,  tlie  more  abiding  pleas- 
ures of  life.  He  will  not  have  us  misjudge  Purgatory 
as  a  place  where  purification  is  wrought  only  by 
pain,  but  repeats  again  and  again  that  purification 
is  also  wrought,  quite  as  much,  by  the  refining  in- 
fluences of  beauty,  of  affection,  of  spiritual  insight. 
Pain  we  must  face,  but  Pain  is  fulfilling  the  office  of 


THE    HAPPY    SIDE    OF    PURGATORY   HT 

Love,  and  brings  its  blessing  with  it.  Even  while  he 
describes  the  sufferings  in  Purgatory,  he  exclaims: 

Non  vo'  per6,  letter,  die  tu  ti  smaghi 

di  buon  proponimento,  per  udire 

come  Dio  vuol  che  il  dehito  si  paghi. 
Non  attender  la  forma  del  martire; 

pensa  la  succession: 

Reader  I  do  not  wish  to  frighten  you 

From   good   resolves,  by  hearing  how  God   wills 
Your  trespass  must  be  paid. 

Heed  not  the  nature  of  the  suffering. 
Think  of  what   lies   beyond. 

Purg.  X,  106-110 

And  he  is  most  solicitous  to  show  us  the  tender 
aspect  of  the  purifying  process,  and  how  pregnant 
with  meaning  life  appears  to  the  senses  that  are 
being  washed  clean,  as  if  the  world  had  been  made 
young  and  innocent,  and  the  Sons  of  God  again  were 
shouting  for  joy.  For  instance,  each  hour  of  day, 
morning,  or  evening  has  its  peculiar  and  tender 
charm: 

Neir  ora  che  comincia  i  tristi  lai 
la   rondinella. 

At  the  hour  when  her  sorrowful  song 
The  swallow  begins; 

Purg.  IX,  13-14 

Era  gia  I'ora  che  volge  il  disio 
ai  naviganti,  e  intenerisce  il  core 
lo  di  ch'  han  detto  ai  dolci  amici  addio; 

E  che  lo  nuovo  peregrin  d'  amore 
punge,  se  ode  squllla  di  lontano, 
che  paia  il  giorno  pianger  che  si  more: 


U-^ 


118  D  A  N  T  E 

It  was  the  hour  when  those  who  sail  the  sea, 

(The  day  that  they  have  bid  dear  friends  good-bye) 
Feel  homeward  yearnings   and   a  softer  heart, 

And  when  the  traveler,  just  starting  on 

His  way,  is  stabl)ed  with  pangs  of  love,  if  from  afar 
He  hears  the  bells  that  seem  to  weep  the  dying  day. 

lb.  VIII,  1-6 


And  no  preacher,  since  the  story  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment, who  has  taught  men  to  turn  towards  things  of 
the  spirit,  not  even  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  was  ever 
more  dextrous  and  delicate  in  preaching  tliat  good- 
ness brings  its  own  reward.  The  worst  horrors  of 
Hell  consist  in  the  hatred  sinners  feel  for  one  another, 
with  their  cursings  and  mutual  wrath;  but  in  Purga- 
tory, the  moment  the  penitent  soul  perceives  the 
shining  of  the  divine  light,  even  before  climbing  the 
purifying  ascent  itself,  she  feels  the  manifestation  of 
God  in  human  friendshij),  in  music,  and  in  poetry. 
Almost  immediately  after  the  poets  have  emerged 
from  the  path  leading  out  of  Hell,  while  still  by  the 
shore  of  the  encircling  sea,  Dante  meets  his  old 
friend  Casella,  the  musician,  a  fellow  townsman, 
who  had  set  Dante's  odes  to  music,  and  the  two  rush 
into  each  other's  arms  witli  great  affection.  And 
Dante  says  to  him: 

Se  niiova  legge  non  ti  toglie 
niemoria  o  uso  all'  amoroso  canto, 
che  mi  solca  quetar  tutte  mie   voglie, 
di  eio  ti  piaecia  eonsolare  alquanto 
I'anima  rnia,  che,  eon  la  sua  persona 
vencndo  fjui,  e  affannata  tanto 


THE    HAPPY   SIDE    OF    PURGATORY    119 

If  new  laws  do  not  take  from  you 
Memory  or  skill  for  songs  of  love 
That  used  to  tranquillize  all  my  desires. 
Please  cheer  my  soul  with  them  awhile. 
Which  traveling  in  its  mortal  body  here 
Is  very  tired. 

lb.  II,  106-11 


Casella  at  once  begins  to  sing  Dante's  ode: 

Amor,  che  nella  mente  mi  ragiona 
Delia  mia  donna  disiosamente, 
Move  cose  di  lei  meco  sovente 
Che  r  intelletto  sovr'  esse  disvia. 

Love,  that  discourses  to  me  in  my  mind 
About  mj^  Lady  lovinglj% 

Starts  thoughts  aljout  her  in  me  oftentimes, 
Mid  which  my  intellect  loses  its  way. 

Canzone  III 


Virgil,  Dante,  and  all  the  company  are  so  charmed 
by  his  singing  that  they  stand  still  for  pleasure  and 
quite  forget  the  duty  before  them,  which  is  to  find 
the  ascent  towards  God. 

And  further  on,  there  are  elaborate  episodes  that 
deal  with  poetry.  In  one  j)lace  Dante  meets  a  poet 
from  Lucca,  Bonagiunta,  an  adherent  to  a  conven- 
tional, old-fashioned  mode  of  writing  poetry,  who 
recognizes  him  and  asks  if  it  is  not  he  that  wrote 
the  famous  ode  in  the  Vita  Nuova, 

Donne,  eh'  avete  intelletto  d'amore, 
lo  vo'  con  voi  della  mia  donna  dire; 
Non  perch'  io  creda  sue  laude  fmire. 
Ma  ragionar  per  isfogar  la  mente. 


120  DANTE 

Ladies,  that  have  intelligence  in  love. 

Of  mine  own  lady  I   would  speak  with  you; 
Not  that   I   hope  to  count  her  praises  through, 
But  telling  what  I  may,  to  ease  my  mind. 

D.    G.    RoSSETTI 

It  is  obvious  that  Bonagiunta,  as  he  asks  the  ques- 
tion, is  puzzled  by  the  difference  between  Dante's 
way  of  writing  verses  and  his  own,  which  was  the 
way  of  the  older  schools,  presided  over  by  Jacopo  da 
Lentino  (the  Notary),  and  by  Guittone  d'Arezzo. 
Dante  replies: 

lo  mi  son  un  che,  quando 
amor  mi  spira,  noto,  ed  a  quel  modo 
che  ditta  dentro,  vo  significando 

I  am  one  who,  when 
Love  breathes  within  me,  mark,  and  in  the  way 
He  sings  to  me,  I  go  proclaiming. 

And  Bonagiunta  answers: 

"O  frate,  issa  veggio,"  disse,  "il  nodo 
che  il  Xotaro,  e  Guittone  e  me  ritenne 
di  qua  dal  dolce  stil  nuovo  ch'  i'  odo. 

lo  veggio  hen  come  le  vostre  penne 
di  retro  al  dittator  sen  vanno  strette, 
che  delle  nostre  certo  non  avenne." 

"O  brother,  now  I  see,"  said  he,  "the  knot 
That  held  the  Notary,  Guittone  and  myself. 
Back  from  that  sweet,  new  style  I  hear. 

And   I   see  well  how  your  pens  follow  close 
Behind  the  Singer,  which  with  us  in  truth 
Was  not  the  case." 

Purg.  XXIV,  52-60 


THE    HAPPY   SIDE    OF    PUliGATORY   121 

Again  and  again,  Dante  intimates  that  poetry  is 
not  only  a  means  of  purifying  the  soul,  but  also  of 
bringing  pleasure  to  her,  and  that  the  purer  she  be- 
comes the  greater  is  her  pleasure.  Besides  meeting 
Casella  and  Bonagiunta,  he  also  meets  Guido  Guini- 
zelli,  the  most  distinguished  of  the  earlier  generation 
of  poets^  and  Arnaut  Daniel,  the  Provencal,  as  well 
(Canto  XXVI)  ;  and,  for  a  good  stretch  of  the  way, 
Sordello  accompanies  him  (Cantos  VI-VIII)  and 
afterwards  Statins,  the  late  Latin  poet  (Cantos  XXI- 
XXVII).  No  episode  is  more  charming  than  the 
meeting  with  Sordello.  This  poet  is  the  famous 
Italian  troubadour,  who,  like  Virgil,  was  born  at 
Mantua. 

While  Dante  and  Virgil  are  still  wandering  in  ante- 
Purgatory  they  behold  a  noble  figure  standing  alone 
in  quiet  dignity,  looking  about  him  like  a  lion.  Virgil, 
with  no  suspicion  of  who  he  is,  draws  near  and  asks 
him  the  best  way  up  the  mountain.  The  stranger 
does  not  answer  the  question,  but  asks  of  what  coun- 
try they  are.  Virgil  no  sooner  begins,  "From  Man- 
tua— "  than  the  other  leaps  toward  him  and  cries: 
"From  ISIantua  you!  I  am  Sordello  of  your  city!" 
And  they  hug  one  another  (Purg.  VI).  Then  Sor- 
dello asks,  "Who  are  you.^"  and  Virgil  answers,  "lo 
son  Virgilio" — "I  am  Virgil."  Sordello  stares  in 
sudden  bewilderment,  then  bends  and  clasps  his 
knees: 

"O  gloria  de'  Latin,"  disse,  "per  cui 
mostro  ci6  che  potea  la  lingua  nostra, 
o  pregio  eterno  del  loco  end'  io  fui, 

Qual  merito  o  qual  grazia  mi  ti  mostra?" 


^ 


122  DANTE 

"O  jrlory  of  the  Latin  race,"  said  he,  "through  whom 

Our  language  showed  what  it  could  do, 

O  everlasting  honor  of  my  native  place! 
What  merit  or  what  grace  shows  you  to  me?" 

Purg.  VII,  16-19 

Just  what  spiritual  refreshment  a  pilgrim  could  get 
from  Sordello  or  from  Statins,  I  must  leave  to  schol- 
ars familiar  with  their  writings;  but  as  it  was  ac- 
cepted doctrine  that  the  function  of  poetry  is  to 
uplift  the  soul,  these  poets  may  be  regarded  as 
symbols,  taken  somewhat  arbitrarily  to  mean  for 
readers  of  that  time  what  Wordsworth,  Browning, 
Matthew  Arnold,  Francis  Thomson,  and  many 
another,  not  to  mention  Dante  himself,  mean  to  the 
pilgrim  to-day. 

This  friendly  intercourse  between  various  persons 
in  their  upward  way  is  perhaps  the  most  noticeable 
of  the  pleasures  in  Purgatory;  but  everywiiere  we 
perceive  the  light  of  the  divine  illumination.  Sin,  even 
pride,  seen  in  that  light,  no  longer  calls  forth  our 
indignation,  but  our  compassion;  and  how  beautiful 
is  the  description  of  Humility: 

A  noi  venia  la  creatura  bella, 

bianco  vestita,  e  nella  faccia  quale 
par   tremolando  inattutina   Stella. 

Toward  us  the  beauteous  creature  came 

All   robed   in  white,  and  in  his  countenance 
Such  as  the  tremulous  morning  star. 

Purr;.  XII,  88-90 

In  fact  Purgatory  seems  far  more  of  a  school  than 
a   house   of   punishment,   and   goodness   is   inculcated 


THE    HAPPY    SIDE    OF    PURGATORY   123 

by  exhortation  and  precept  almost  more  than  by 
pains.  Virgil,  who  plays  the  schoolmaster,  says: 

Chiainavi  11  cielo,  e  intorno  vi  si  gira, 
luostrandovi  le  sue  bellezze  eterne, 
e  rocohio  vostro  pure  a  terra  niira; 

The  Heavens  call  you,  and  whirl  around  you, 
Displaying  to  you  their  eternal  beauty. 
But  your  eyes  gaze  upon  the  earth. 

76.  XIV,  148-150 

The  pains  are  grim  enough — crushing  weights,  eye- 
lids sewn  up,  choking  fog,  fire — but  over  and  above, 
like  a  flight  of  bobolinks  singing  and  fluttering  in  a  'v^ 
radiant  sky,  flash  and  echo  sights  and  sounds  of 
spiritual  joy,  presentiments  of  the  Earthly  Paradise 
that  lies  at  the  end  of  the  journey.  That  Earthly  / 
Paradise,  of  course,  is  the  complete  innocence  of 
the  soul,  which  Wordsworth  conceives  as  the  ful- 
fillment of  duty: 

Serene   will   be   our   days   and   bright, 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  security. 

But  we  are  not  left  with  a  didactic  eulogy  of  inno- 
cence. On  the  contrary,  Dante's  picture  of  it  merely 
embodies  the  joy  of  life.  The  most  perfect  simile  for 
innocence  and  goodness  was  when  Christ  took  the 
little  children  and  said,  "Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of. 
Heaven."  But  since  then  (one  may  boldly  affirm) 
there  has  been  no  more  charming  glimpse  of  life 
unspotted  by  the  Avorld  than  this  of  Dante's.  He  has 


124  DANTE 

reached  the  river  Lethe  in  the  wonderful  garden  at 
the  top  of  Purgatory,  and  looks  across: 

e  lii  ni'apparve,  si  com'  egli  appare 

subitaniente  cosa  olie  disvia  ij 

per  niaraviglia  tutt'  aitro  pensare, 
una  donna  soletta,  che  si  gia 

cantando  ed  iscegiiendo  fior  da  fiorc, 

ond'  era  pinta  tutta  la  sua  via. 
"Deti,  bella  donna,  cli'  ai  raggi  d'  aniorec- 

ti  scaldi,  s'io  vo'  credere  ai  sembianti    /ly 

clie  soglion  csser  testirnon  del  core, 
Vegnati  voglia  di  trarreti  avanti," 

diss'  io  a  lei,  "verso  questa  riviera, 

tanto  cli'  io  possa  intender  che  tu  canti. 
Tu  mi  fai  rimembrar,  dove  e  qual  era 

Proserpina  nel  tempo  clie  perdette 

la  madre  lei,  ed  ella  primavera." 
Come  si  volge,  con  le  piante  strette 

a  terra  ed  intra  se,  donna  che  balli, 

e  piede  innanzi  piede  a  pena  niette, 
volsesi  in  sui  vermigli  ed  in  sui  gialli 

fioretti  verso  me,  non  altrimenti 

che  vergine  che  gli  occhi  onesti  avvalU; 
e  fece  i  j)reghi  miei  esser  contenti, 

si  appressando  se,  che  il  dolee  suono 

veniva  a  me  co'  suoi  intendimenti. 
Tosto  che  fu  la  dove  rcrl)e  sono 

bagnate  gia  dall'  onde  del  bel  fmme, 

di  levar  gli  occhi  suoi  mi  fece  dono. 
Non  credo  che  splendesse  tanto  lume 

sotto  ie  ciglia  a   N'enere  trafitta 

dal  figiio,  fuor  di  tutto  suo  costume. 

And  there  appeared   to   me — even  as  doth  appear 

Some  sudden  thing  that  hanisheth 

In  wonderifient  all  thoughts  of  other  thing.s — 
A  lady  all  alone,  who  singing  went 

And  picking  flower  on  flower,  with   which 

Her  jtath  was  colored  all  the  way. 


THE    HAPPY    SIDE    OF    PURGATORY   125 

"O  Lovely  Lady,  who  doth  warm  thyself 

Beneath  the  rays  of  love  (if  I  may  credence  give 

To  looks  that  often  are  a  witness  of  the  heart) 
May  thy  good  will  thee  nearer  bring,"  said  I 

To  her,  "towards  the  river  bank,  so  close 

That  I  may  hear  the  song  thou  sings't. 
Thou  bringest  to  my  mind  Proserpina, 

Both  where  and  what  she  was,  that  time 

Her  mother  lost  her,  and  she  lost  the  spring." 
She  turned  upon  her  red  and  yellow  flowers 

Toward  me,  in  just  the  way  a  maiden  turns 

And  drops  her  modest  eyes. 
And  satisfied  my  prayers.  She  drew  so  close 

That  with  her  music  came  to  me 

The  meaning  of  her  words. 
So  soon  as  she  was  where  the  grasses  bathe 

Within  the  waters  of  the  lovely  stream. 

She  granted  me  a  boon — she  raised  her  eyes. 
I  do  not  think  that  ever  so  much  light 

Flashed   under   Venus'   lids,  when  pierced 

By  her  son's  arrow  shot  with  unwonted  force. 

Purg.  XXVHL  37-66 

This  lovely  lady  explains  to  Dante  the  nature  of 
the  Earthly  Paradise,  and  singing,  "Blessed  are  they 
whose  sins  are  forgiven  them,"  conducts  him  to  where 
he  shall  see  Beatrice.  The  allegory  is  simple;  after  \  ^y 
the  soul  has  become  as  a  young  child,  it  is  endowed 
with  heavenly  wisdom  and  is  able  to  understand  the 
exquisite  beauty  of  innocence.  So  Milton  says: 

That  when  a  soul  is  found  sincerely  so, 
A  thousand  liveried  angels  lackey  her. 
Driving  far  off  each  thing  of  sin   and  guilt. 
And  in  clear  dream,  and  solenm  vision, 
Tell  her  of  things  that  no  gross  ear  can  hear, 
Till  oft  converse  with  heav'nly  habitants 
Begin  to  cast  a  beam  on  th'  outward  shape, 


126  DANTE 

The  unpolluted  teni])lc  of  the  mind, 

And  turns  it  l)y  def^rees  to  the  soul's  essence 

Till  all  l)c  made  inunortal. 

And  Milton's  contemporary,  George  Fox,  tells  his 
experience  of  the  Earthly  Paradise  on  the  further 
side  of  Purgatory  in  this  way:  "Now  I  was  come  up 
in  spirit  through  the  flaming  sword,  into  the  Para- 
dise of  God.  All  things  were  new;  and  all  creation 
gave  unto  me  another  smell  than  before,  beyond 
what  words  can  utter.  I  knew  nothing  but  pureness 
and  innocency,  and  righteousness,  being  renewed 
into  the  image  of  God  by  Christ  Jesus,  to  the  state 
of  Adam  which  he  was  in  before  he  fell"  {Journal, 
1648). 

But  the  seeker  must  not  expect  to  find  that  there 
is  only  one  road  up  the  Hill  of  Purgatory,  for  there 
are  many — a  separate  road  for  each  it  may  be. 
Some  may  have  a  path  of  sorrow,  some  a  path  of 
joy;  some  may  find  the  road  in  cloistered  ways  far 
from  the  rush  of  life,  others  may  find  it  in  the  very 
tliick  of  the  struggle. 

Pascal  prayed:  "Je  ne  demande  pas  d'etre  exempt 
des  douleurs,  .  .  .  mais  je  demande  de  netre  pas 
ahandonne  aux  douleures  de  la  nature  sans  les  con- 
solations de  voire  esprit."^  It  is  for  the  sake  of  such 
petitioners  that  Dante  insists  that  these  divine  con- 
solations— music,  poetry,  affection,  and  visions 
angelical — are  always  to  be  found  by  the  soul  that 
is  climbing  the  road,  even  the  road  of  pain,  to  the 
garden  of  innocence.  Brother  Lawrence  says  "that 
we  must  be  faithful  in  doing  our  duty  and  denying 
1  Quoted  in  The  Spirit  of  Man,  No.  258. 


THE    HAPPY    SIDE    OF   PURGATORY   127 

ourselves,  and  that  after  that  unspeakable  pleasures 
will  follow"  {Third  Conversation).  And  Plato  bore 
his  testimony  long  ago:  "He  who  has  been  instructed 
thus  far  in  the  science  of  Love,  and  has  been  led  to 
see  beautiful  things  in  their  due  order  and  rank,  when 
he  comes  toward  the  end  of  his  discipline,  will  sud- 
denly catch  sight  of  a  wondrous  thing,  beautiful 
with  the  absolute  Beauty;  ...  he  will  see  a  Beauty 
eternal,  not  growing  or  decaying,  not  waxing  or 
waning;  nor  will  it  be  fair  here  and  foul  there,  nor 
depending  on  time  or  circumstance  or  place,  as  if 
fair  to  some,  and  foul  to  others :  .  .  .  Beauty  abso- 
lute, separate,  simple  and  everlasting;  which  lending 
of  its  virtue  to  all  beautiful  things  that  we  see  born 
to  decay,  itself  suffers  neither  increase  nor  dimi- 
nution, nor  any  other  change. 

"When  a  man  proceeding  onwards  from  terrestrial 
things  by  the  right  way  of  loving,  once  comes  to 
sight  of  that  Beauty,  he  is  not  far  from  his  goal.  And 
this  is  the  right  way  wherein  he  should  go  or  be 
guided  in  his  love:  he  should  begin  by  loving  earthly 
things  for  the  sake  of  the  absolute  loveliness,  ascend- 
ing to  that  as  it  were  by  degrees  or  steps,  from  the 
first  to  the  second,  and  thence  to  all  fair  forms ;  and 
from  fair  forms  to  fair  conduct,  and  from  fair  con- 
duct to  fair  i^rinciples,  until  from  fair  principles  he 
finally  arrive  at  the  ultimate  principle  of  all,  and 
learn  what  absolute  Beauty  is. 

"This  life,  my  dear  Socrates,  said  Diotima,  if  any 
life  at  all  is  worth  living,  is  the  life  that  a  man  should 
live,  in  the  contemplation  of  absolute  Beauty :  .  .  . 
What  if  a  man's  eyes  were  awake  to  the  sight  of  the 


128  D  ANTE 

true  Beauty,  the  divine  Beauty,  pure,  clear  and  un- 
alloyed, not  clogged  with  the  pollutions  of  mortality, 
and  the  many  colours  and  varieties  of  human  life? 
What  if  he  should  hold  converse  with  the  true 
Beauty,  simple  and  divine? 

"O  think  you?  she  said,  that  it  would  be  an 
ignoble  life  for  a  man  to  be  ever  looking  thither  and 
with  his  proper  faculty  contemplating  the  absolute 
Beauty,  and  to  be  living  in  its  presence?  Are  you 
not  rather  convinced  that  he  who  thus  sees  Beauty  as 
only  it  can  be  seen,  will  be  specially  fortuned?  And 
that,  since  he  is  in  contact  not  with  images  but  re- 
alities, he  will  give  birth  not  to  images,  but  to  very 
Truth  itself?  And  being  thus  the  parent  and  nurse 
of  true  virtue  it  will  be  his  lot  to  become  a  friend  of 
God,  and,  so  far  as  any  man  can  be,  immortal  and 
absolute"  {Symposium,  translation  from  The  Spirit 
of  Man,  No.  37). 

Poet  and  philosopher  agree  with  the  Apostle  Paul 
that  "without  holiness  no  man  shall  see  the  Lord" 
(Heb.  xii,  14). 


CHAPTER    XI 

INTRODUCTION    TO    THE    PARADISO 

PARADISE  is  attained  when  the  soul,  at  every 
moment  and  in  every  place,  with  the  sub- 
conscious mind  if  not  with  the  waking  con- 
sciousness, is  aware  of  the  presence  of  God.  "Ogni 
dove  in  cielo  e  Paradiso,"  Dante  says  (Par.  Ill, 
88-89)  ;  every  place  where  God  is  present  is  Paradise. 
To  the  soul,  so  aware,  the  world  is  filled  with  splen- 
dor, and  life  is  a  benediction. 

La  gloria  di  Colui  che  tutto  move 
})er  Funiverso  penetra, 

The  glory  of   Him  who  moveth  all  things 
Permeates  the  universe. 

Par.  I,  1-3 

This  permeating  presence  of  God  is  manifested  in 
love.  "Love,"  Dante  says,  "truly  taken  and  subtly 
considered,  is  nought  else  than  a  spiritual  union  of 
the  soul  and  of  the  thing  beloved"  {Conv.  Ill,  Ch. 
2)  ;  and  Paradise  is  the  union  of  the  soul  with  God. 
"Ipsa  est  heata  vita,  gaudere  de  te,  ad  te,  propter  te: 
ipsa  est  et  non  est  altra" — "This  is  the  life  of 
blessedness,  to  rejoice  concerning  Thee,  toward 
Thee,  and  because  of  Thee;  this  it  is  and  nothing 
else"   (St.  Augustine's  Conf.  X,  Ch.  22). 

This  conscious  union  of  the  soul  with  God  is,  no 
129 


130  DANTE 

douht^  an  experience  confined  to  the  very  few.  These 
few  we  call  mystics.  They  believe  that  in  this  life 
they  come  face  to  face  with  God.  This  meeting,  this 
union,  they  delight  to  speak  of  as  the  mystical 
espousals  of  the  soul  with  God.  Their  language  is 
figurative,  because,  such  a  union  being  beyond  the 
common  experience  of  normal  man,  and  language 
having  been  framed  for  the  use  of  normal  man,  there 
are  no  words  for  it.  But  though  their  words  may  not 
present  definite  concepts  to  the  rational  mind,  they 
are  intelligible  to  the  desirous  heart.  To  the  outsider, 
these  m3'^stics  appear  to  fall  into  two  categories.  The 
first  category  includes  those  who  have  had  visions 
which  affected  the  senses  themselves,  such  as  St. 
Paul,  who  saw  the  strange  light  in  heaven,  St.  Au- 
gustine, who  heard  the  voice  say,  "Tolle,  lege,"  St. 
Francis  of  Assisi,  who  received  stigmata,  St.  Theresa, 
Jacob  Boehme,  and  others,  who  believed  that  with 
their  human  senses  they  heard  and  saw  God.  The 
second  category  contains  those  who  seem  to  have 
received  their  mystical  experiences  rather  through 
the  imagination  than  through  the  senses,  such  as 
Plotinus,  St.  Bonaventura,  Ruysbroeck,  Pascal,  St. 
John  of  the  Cross,  and  many  more.  And  there 
are  other  differences;  different  minds  have  differ- 
ent experiences,  sec  different  aspects  of  trutli,  and 
express  themselves  according  to  their  individuality; 
and  some  concern  themselves  with  the  culminating 
felicity  itself,  while  others  speak  of  the  way  of  ap- 
proach. As  Dante's  ojjinions  have  much  in  common 
with  those  of  saints,  mystics,  and  seers,  it  may 
help  to  understand  him  if  I  quote  from  what  certain 


INTRODUCTION    TO    THE    PARADISO     131 

high-souled    men    liave   testified    concerning  this,   the 
deepest  experience  in  life. 

An  unknown  old  German  writer  expresses  himself 
thus:  "Some  may  ask  what  it  is  to  be  a  partaker  of 
the  Divine  Nature,  or  a  Godlike  [vergottet,  literally 
deified]  man?  Answer:  he  who  is  imbued  with  or 
illuminated  by  tlie  Eternal  or  Divine  Light  and 
inflamed  or  consumed  with  Eternal  or  Divine  Love, 
he  is  a  deified  man  and  a  partaker  of  the  Divine 
Nature."^  Ruysbroeck,  the  Belgian,  with  whom 
Maeterlinck  has  made  us  acquainted,  asserts: 
"When  love  has  carried  us  above  all  things,  above 
the  light,  into  the  Divine  Dark,  there  we  are  trans- 
formed by  the  Eternal  Word  Who  is  the  image  of  the 
Father;  and  as  the  air  is  penetrated  by  the  sun,  thus 
we  receive  in  peace  the  Incomprehensible  Light,  en- 
folding us  and  penetrating  us.  What  is  this  light,  if 
it  be  not  a  contemplation  of  the  Infinite  and  an  in- 
tuition of  Eternity.''  We  behold  that  which  we  are, 
and  we  are  that  which  we  behold,  because  our  being, 
without  losing  an^-thing  of  its  own  personality,  is 
united  with  the  Divine  Truth  which  respects  all 
diversity."^  And  the  Spanish  mystic,  St.  John  of  the 
Cross,  in  comparing  the  union  of  the  soul  with  God 
to  a  spiritual  marriage,  says :  "The  faculties  of  the 
soul  have  attained  so  perfect  a  degree  of  purity,  that 
her  will,  in  its  lower  sphere  as  well  as  in  its  higher 
sphere,  is  wholly  detached  from  seeking,  and  also 
from  desire,  for  aught  that  is  not  God.  For  His  sake, 
of   all   things    else    she    makes    an    absolute    sacrifice. 

1  Mysticism,  Evelyn  Underbill,  p.  500. 
2/6.,  p.  506. 


132  DANTE 

Then,  by  this  spontaneous  renouncement,  the  will 
of  tlie  soul  and  the  will  of  God  become  one  and  the 
same,  and  God  does  her  the  favor  to  take  possession 
of  her,  through  this  conformity  of  her  will  with  His, 
and  He  lifts  her  up  to  the  spiritual  espousals.  In  this 
state  the  soul  becomes  the  bride  of  the  Word,  and 
the  Spouse  bestows  upon  her  great  and  precious 
favors"  {The  Living  Fire  of  hove.  III,  line  3). 

Jacob  Boehme,  a  very  famous  German  mystic, 
whose  doctrines  greatly  influenced  George  Fox,  de- 
clares that:  "The  only  way  by  which  God  may  be 
perceived  in  His  word.  His  essence,  and  His  will,  is 
that  man  arrives  at  the  state  of  unity  with  himself, 
and  that — not  merely  in  his  imagination  but  in  his 
will — he  should  leave  everything  that  is  his  per- 
sonal self,  or  that  belongs  to  that  self  .  .  .  and  that 
his  own  self  should  become  as  nothing  to  him.  He 
must  surrender  everything  .  .  .  ;  he  should  kill  and 
annihilate  his  self-will,  the  will  that  claims  .  .  . 
things  as  its  j^ossessions.  He  should  surrender  all 
this  to  his  Creator,  and  say  with  the  full  consent  of 
his  heart.  Lord,  all  is  Thine.  .  .  .  Act  through  me 
in  what  manner  You  will,  so  that  Thy  will  shall  be 
done  in  all  things,  and  that  all  that  I  am  called  upon 
to  do  may  be  done  for  the  benefit  of  my  brothers, 
whom  I  am  serving  according  to  Thy  command. 
He  who  enters  into  such  a  state  of  supreme  resig- 
nation enters  into  divine  union  with  Christ,  so  that 
he  sees  God  Himself.  He  speaks  with  God  and  God 
speaks  with  him,  and  lie  tlius  knows  what  is  the 
Word,  the  Essence,  and  the  Will  of  God"  {Jacob 
Boehme,  by  F.  Hartmann,  pp.    Vl-Wi). 


INTRODUCTION    TO    THE    PAIIADISO     133 

These  mystics,  German,  Belgian  and  Spanish,  use 
the  language  of  ancient  piety,  but  the  meaning  is 
clear.  It  is  stated  in  modern  language  hy  the  psy- 
chologist, M.  Delacroix:  "The  beginning  of  the 
mystic  life  introduced  into  the  personal  life  of  the 
subject  a  group  of  states  [of  mind]  which  are  dis- 
tinguished by  certain  characteristics,  and  which 
form,  so  to  speak,  a  special  psychological  system. 
At  its  terra  [end],  it  has,  as  it  were,  suppressed  the 
ordinary  self,  and  by  the  development  of  this  new 
system  has  established  a  new  personality,  with  a 
new  method  of  feeling  and  of  action.  Its  growth 
results  in  the  transformation  of  jjersonality ;  it  abol- 
ishes the  primitive  consciousness  of  selfhood,  and 
substitutes  for  it  a  wider  consciousness:  the  total 
disappearance  of  selfhood  in  the  divine,  the  substitu- 
tion of  a  Divine  Self  for  the  primitive  self"  (quoted 
in  Mysticism,  p.  498). 

So  far  the  mystics.  They  are  beyond  the  range  of 
common  experience,  and  therefore  usually  beyond 
the  reach  of  our  understanding  and  our  sympathy. 
But  between  them  and  us,  other  men  take  their 
station,  who  also  desire  union  with  the  infinite, 
who  believe  in  love,  in  spiritual  life,  in  self-sacrifice, 
in  faith,  and  yet  keep  their  feet  upon  this  prosaic, 
it  may  be,  but  dear  and  beautiful  earth.  Perhaps  I 
should  not  say  that  Emerson,  whom  I  now  quote, 
keeps  his  feet  on  the  earth,  rather  he  hovers  near  it 
on  his  golden  wings ;  but  his  thoughts,  although 
tinged  with  mysticism,  are  not  wholly  out  of  har- 
mony with  the  rational  atmosphere  in  which  we 
habitually   live.    That    unity    of   many    powers    which 


134!  ])  A  N  T  E 

the  mystics  symbolize  by  "Christ"  or  "God,"  he 
calls  the  Over-soul. 

"That  Unity,  that  Over-soul,  within  which  every 
man's  particular  being  is  contained  and  made  one 
with  all  other;  that  common  heart  ...  to  which  all 
right  action  is  submission ;  that  overpowering  reality 
.  .  .  evermore  tends  to  pass  into  our  thought  and 
hand  and  become  wisdom  and  virtue  and  poAver  and 
beauty.  .  .  .  And  this  deep  power  in  which  we 
exist  and  whose  beatitude  is  all  accessible  to  us,  is 
not  only  self-sufficing  and  perfect  in  every  hour,  but 
the  act  of  seeing  and  the  thing  seen,  the  seer  and 
the  spectacle,  the  subject  and  the  object,  are  one. 
...  Of  this  pure  nature  every  man  is  at  some  time 
sensible.  Language  cannot  paint  it  with  his  colors. 
It  is  too  subtle.  It  is  undefinable,  unmeasureable ; 
but  we  know  that  it  pervades  and  contains  us.  .  .  . 
There  is  no  .  .  .  bar  or  wall  in  the  soul,  where  man, 
the  effect,  ceases,  and  God,  the  cause,  begins.  .  .  . 
Ineffable  is  the  union  of  man  and  God  in  every  act  of 
the  soul.  The  simplest  person  who  in  his  integrity 
worships  God,  becomes  God;  yet  forever  and  ever 
the  influx  of  this  better  and  universal  self  is  new  and 
unsearchable.  .  .  .  Behold  (the  soul)  saith,  I  am 
born  into  the  great,  the  universal  mind.  .  .  .  More 
and  more  the  surges  of  everlasting  nature  enter  into 
me.  ...  So  come  I  to  live  in  thoughts  and  act 
with  energies  which  are  immortal"   {The  Over-soul). 

Finally,  I  quote  Tolstoi,  who  stands  with  his  two 
feet  firm  on  the  ground.  He  does  not  seek  religion  in 
some  remote  sphere  of  ecstatic  speculation,  but  in 
humdrum    daily    life.    He    says:    "My    mistake    lay 


INTRODUCTION    TO    THE    PARADISO     135 

in  ever  expecting  an  examination  of  finite  things  to 
supply  a  meaning  to  life.  The  finite  has  no  ultimate 
meaning  apart  from  the  infinite.  The  two  must  be 
linked  together  before  an  answer  to  life's  problems 
can  be  reached.  .  .  .  What  am  I .''  A  part  of  the  in- 
finite. In  these  few  words  lies  the  whole  problem" 
(JMy  Confession). 

Such  are  the  beliefs  of  some  spiritual  minds  seek- 
ing to  comprehend  the  relation  of  the  finite  with  the 
infinite,  of  man's  soul  with  God,  and  they  shed  some 
light  for  us  when  we  are  speculating  as  to  what  may 
be  the  meaning  of  those  phrases  employed  by  the 
saints,  such  as  "the  state  of  blessedness,"  "the 
Paradise  of  the  elect,"  "the  Kingdom  of  Heaven." 

In  the  Paradiso  Dante  expounds  his  beliefs ;  he 
uses  the  language,  the  phrases,  the  metaphors  of  his 
time,  and  these  are  very  rich  and  magnificent;  never- 
theless under  all  the  splendor  of  poetical  imagining 
the  human  structure  of  his  beliefs,  as  they  apply 
to  earthier  life,  may  be  discerned.  If  my  interpretation 
is  dogmatic,  it  is  for  simplicity's  sake.  The  Divine 
Comedy  is  like  a  forest  of  truth  in  wliich  a  thousand 
men  can  climb  a  thousand  trees,  and  each  man,  as 
he  mounts  nearer  toward  heaven,  fondly  believes 
that  he  has  chosen  the  poet's  tree  of  life.  Dante,  then, 
whatever  he  may  say  to  learned  men,  says  this  to 
the  simple:  Paradise  is  within  our  own  souls,  and  to 
dwell  in  Paradise,  means  to  be  sensitive  to  the  hal- 
lowing influences  of  life,  to  fix  our  eyes  upon  the 
beauty  of  holiness,  as  the  lover  gazes  up  at  the  win- 
dow in  which  his  lady  shall  appear;  it  means,  to 
tend    and    watch    over — as    April    with    its    sunshine 


136  DANTE 

and  its  rain  tends  and  watches  over  the  "rathe 
primrose" — our  uncertain  and  tremulous  hope  that 
the  power  which  moves  throughout  the  universe, 
and  impels  all  motions,  may  best  be  interpreted  to 
men  by  its  manifestation  in  that  love  which  St. 
Paul  describes ;  it  means  the  conviction  that  man  is 
of  one  substance  with  all  the  universe,  that  he  and 
it  have  a  common  purpose,  a  common  task,  and  a 
common  destiny,  that  this  consubstantiality  is  of 
soul  and  mind,  as  well  as  of  body,  and  that  universal 
harmony  is  necessary  for  universal  joy. 

Dante,  like  ourselves,  cannot  explain  why  the  joy 
of  harmony  does  not  prevail  throughout  the  uni- 
verse. Something  is  wrong;  the  stuflf  out  of  which 
men  are  made,  we  do  not  know  why,  does  not  take 
the  shape  divine  influence  would  impress  upon  it 
(Par.  XIII,  67-69,  and  I,  127-129).  But  that  seem- 
ing misfortune  is  our  good  fortune  in  disguise.  Life 
would  lose  its  highest  incentive,  and  love  of  God 
have  little  meaning,  if  we  had  no  task  to  perform, 
if  we  could  not  aspire  to  be  His  agents  to  do  His 
work.  In  Purgatory  our  duty  is  to  renounce  and  to 
purify;  in  Paradise  it  is  to  gratify  the  deep  religious 
instinct  of  the  human  heart.  "Nearer,  my  God,  to 
The^" — that  is  the  subject  of  the  Paradiso.  Bea- 
trice, an  emanation  from  God,  conducts  the  innocent 
soul  up  from  plane  to  plane,  until  the  heart,  mind, 
and  soul  attain  "the  complete  and  perfect  posses- 
sion of  unlimited  life  at  a  single  moment"  (Boethius, 
quoted  by  Gardner,  Dante  and  the  Mystics,  p.  28). 

This  approach  nearer  and  nearer  to  God,  the 
navigatio  ad  patriam  (lb.  p.  61),  has  been  the  subject 


INTRODUCTION    TO    THE    PARADISO     137 

of  dearest  interest  to  the  mystics.  Plotinus,  the 
Neoplatonic  philosopher  of  Alexandria,  says:  "The 
first  thing  is  to  render  the  organ  of  vision  analogous 
and  similar  to  the  object  which  it  is  to  contemplate. 
The  eye  could  never  have  perceived  the  sun,  if  it  had 
not  first  taken  the  form  of  the  sun ;  in  the  same  way, 
the  soul  could  never  see  beauty,  if  she  were  not  first 
beautiful  herself,  and  every  man  must  begin  by 
making  himself  beautiful  and  divine  in  order  to 
obtain  sight  of  what  is  beautiful  and  divine"  (quoted 
by  Maeterlinck,  Ruysbroeck  V admirable) .  And  St. 
Bonaventura  says  of  this  drawing  near:  "But  if  thou 
wouldst  know  how  these  things  are  done,  question 
grace,  not  doctrine;  desire,  not  understanding;  the 
sob  of  prayer,  not  the  study  of  texts ;  the  bridegroom,  . 
not  the  master;  God,  not  man;  darkness,  not  clarity; 
not  light,  but  the  fire  that  inflames  utterly  and 
transfers  into  God,  with  excessive  fervour  and  most 
ardent  love"  {Dante  and  the  Mystics,  p.  253). 

But    for    this    drawing    near    we    must    remember      /i 
that  God  is  Truth  as  well  as  that  God  is  Love,  and     //  / 
therefore  that  the  way  of  approach  must  be  by  the     '' 
intellect  as  well  as  by  the  heart.  God — the  Absolute, 
the  Real,  the  Infinite,  Matter,  Motion,  IMind,  Spirit, 
call    Him   by   what   name   you    will — is    beyond   the 
reach    of    the   human   intellect;    nevertheless    seekers 
believe,  or  at  least  they  hope,  that  all  things  which 
exist   contribute  in  some  measure  towards   a  knowl- 
edge of  God.  The  laws  by  which  the  stars  move  and 
"perform  their  shining,"  the  principles  of  chemistry, 
the     manifestations     of     electricity,     tlie     habits     of 
animals,  the  yearnings  of  man,  the  brain  of  Newton, 


138  DANTE 

the  imagination  of  Shakespeare,  the  compassion  of 
Jesus,  each  and  all  bring  their  candles  and  help  us 
see  a  little,  however  minute  that  little  is  in  com- 
parison with  the  unmeasured  bulk  of  our  ignorance, 
and  give  us  the  hope  that  by  this  candle  light  we  may- 
see  the  path  on  which  we  may  walk  in  accordance 
with  His  will. 

Dante,  one  might  almost  say,  was  more  interested 
in  the  intellect  than  in  the  heart.  He  studied  all  the 
religious  philosophy  of  his  time,  and  would  not  have 
us  think  ourselves  safe  in  following  an  undisciplined, 
uninstructed  conscience.  To  know  the  right  is,  ac- 
cording to  liim,  a  matter  that  will  tax  the  profoundest 
thinkers.  God,  it  is  said,  does  not  make  Himself 
manifest  to  cowards;  neither  does  He  make  Himself 
manifest  to  the  slothful  or  the  blind.  Dante  would 
have  us  study  William  James,  Bergson,  Eucken, 
James  Martineau,  and  all  thinkers  who  have  pon- 
dered upon  the  means  of  coming  nearer  to  the  goal 
of  all  desire.  It  is,  nevertheless^  not  easy  to  explain 
the  theory  of  the  road  to  God  by  the  intellect,  as 
Dante  understood  it,  so  that  it  shall  be  serviceable 
to  us  to-day.  The  best  way  to  make  it  intelligible, 
and  possibly  serviceable,  will  be  to  cite  what  St. 
Augustine  says  concerning  it,  and  therefore  I  cite  an 
extract  from  his  Confessions,  Book  IX,  Ch.  10.  "The 
day  was  now  aj)i)roacliing  that  [my  mother  Monica] 
was  to  dcj)art  this  life,  .  .  .  and  it  befell,  as  I  be- 
lieve, because  Thou  brought  it  about  by  Thy  secret 
ways,  that  she  and  I  were  standing  by  ourselves 
leaning  against  a  certain  window  which  looked  out 
on  the  garden  enclosed  by  the  house  in  which  we  were. 


INTRODUCTION    TO    THE    PARADISO     139 

at  Ostia  on  the  Tiber;  and  there,  sequestered  from 
the  company,  after  the  fatigue  of  a  long  journey,  we 
were  recruiting  our  strength  for  the  sea  voyage. 
So,  we  were  talking  together,  alone,  very  sweetly, 
and  forgetting  those  things  which  are  behind  and 
reaching  forth  unto  those  things  that  are  before,  and 
we  were  inquiring  of  one  another  (by  considering 
the  Present  Truth,  which  Thou  art),  what  would  be 
the  eternal  life  of  the  saints,  which  eye  hath  not  seen 
nor  ear  heard,  neither  hath  it  entered  into  the  heart 
of  man.  And  we  panted  in  the  thirstiness  of  our 
hearts  for  the  upper  waters  of  Thy  fountain,  the 
fountain  of  life  that  is  in  Thee;  so  that,  besprinkled 
with  it,  according  to  our  capacity,  Ave  might  in  some 
sort  meditate  on  so  high  a  matter.  And  when  our 
discourse  was  once  come  to  the  point  that  the 
greatest  pleasure  of  the  bodily  senses,  in  their 
greatest  material  glitter,  contrasted  with  the  joy  of 
that  life,  was  to  the  seeing  eye  not  merely  not 
worthy  of  comparison,  but  not  even  of  mention.  And 
being  lifted  up  by  a  more  burning  affection  toward 
that  life,  we  by  degrees  passed  beyond  all  material 
things,  even  the  sky,  from  which  sun,  moon  and 
stars  shine  upon  the  earth.  Thither  we  ascended,  in- 
wardly musing,  discoursing,  and  wondering  at  Thy 
works,  and  we  passed  on  to  our  minds,  and  tran- 
scended mind,  until  we  touched  the  region  of  riches 
that  never  fail  .  .  .  where  life  is  that  Wisdom,  by 
which  all  things  are  made,  both  those  that  have 
been  and  tliose  that  are  to  be.  (This  wisdom  is  not 
made,  but  it  is  now  as  it  lias  been  and  ever  shall 
be.  Nay,  indeed,  the  terms  'to  have  been'  and  'shall 


140  DANTE 

be'  do  not  belong  to  it,  but  only  the  term  'I  am/ 
since  it  is  everlasting.  For  to  eternity  there  is  neither 
past  nor  future.)  And  while  we  talked  and  panted  for 
it,  by  the  impulsion  of  our  whole  heart,  we  attained 
in  a  meagre  measure  to  the  edge  of  it.  .  .  .  So  we 
said:  Supjiose  that  the  tumult  of  the  flesh  be 
silent,  that  the  i^hantasms  of  earth  and  waters  and 
air  be  silent,  that  the  heavens  be  silent  and  the  soul 
itself  be  silent,  and  by  not  thinking  of  itself  tran- 
scend self;  suppose  that  dreams  be  silent  and  the 
fantasies  of  the  imagination,  that  every  tongue, 
and  every  sign,  and  tliat  whatever  is  in  course  of 
creation  be  altogetlier  silent — since  if  any  one  should 
hearken  to  them,  all  things  say,  'We  have  not  made 
us  but  He  who  abides  forever  made  us' ;  and  suppose 
that  having  uttered  this  they  also  are  silent  (for  they 
have  lifted  up  our  ears  to  Him  who  made  them),  and 
suppose  that  He  Himself  speaks  alone,  not  by  His 
creatures,  but  of  Himself,  so  that  we  hear  His  own 
word, not  by  tongue  of  flesh,  nor  by  voice  of  angel,  nor 
by  the  sound  of  thunder,  nor  by  the  riddle  of  allegory, 
but  hear  Him  Himself,  whom  manifested  in  these.  His 
creatures,  we  love.  Himself  Avithout  them  (just  as 
now  we  stretch  forth  and  in  swift  thought  touch  the 
eternal  wisdom  tliat  abides  over  all)  ;  supjDose  this 
exultation  of  spirit  continue  and  all  other  visions  of 
wholly  inferior  kind  l)e  taken  away,  and  this  one 
vision  ravish  the  beholder,  swallow  him  up,  and  im- 
merse him  in  these  inward  joys,  and  suppose  that  his 
life  were  to  be  forever  like  to  this  moment  of  under- 
standing for  which  we  have  been  sighing,  is  not  this  the 
benediction:  'Enter  thou  into  the  joy  of  thy  Lord'.''" 


INTRODUCTION    TO    THE    PARADISO    141 

For  St.  Augustine  the  great  sjairitual  adventure 
of  personal  consciousness  of  the  presence  of  God  is 
primarily  intellectual,  and  so  I  think  it  was  with 
Dante;  but  with  others  (and  these  are  the  far 
larger  number)  it  is  primarily  emotional,  manifesting 
itself  in  a  jaassionate  desire  for  nearness  to  God. 
Nowadaj'^s  (I  speak  of  the  time  before  the  war),  at 
least  in  our  industrial  society,  the  love  of  God, 
however  glib  upon  the  lips,  is  a  pale,  languid,  tepid 
emotion,  compared  with  the  fiery  passion  of  the 
mediaeval  Catholic  saints.  But  to  understand  the 
Paradiso  we  must  feel,  behind  the  scholastic  expo- 
sitions that  occur  somewhat  frequently,  this  white 
heat  of  love,  and  to  that  end  I  quote  from 
St.  Gertrude  and  from  Dante's  countrywoman, 
St.   Catherine  of  Siena. 

St.  Gertrude  expresses  herself  in  this  way:  "I 
come,  I  come  toward  Thee,  O  loving  Jesus !  Toward 
Thee  whom  I  have  loved,  whom  I  have  sought, 
whom  I  have  longed  for.  Drawn  by  Thy  gentleness, 
by  Thy  compassion,  by  Thy  charity,  I  give  myself 
up  at  Thy  call,  loving  Thee  with  all  my  heart,  with 
all  my  soul,  with  all  my  might.  Let  me  not  be  con- 
founded in  my  hope,  but  deal  with  me  according 
to  Thy  gentleness  and  according  to  the  magnitude  of 
Thy  mercy.  .  .  .  Holy  Ghost !  Love !  Love !  Tell  me 
the  way  that  leadeth  to  so  delightful  an  abiding- 
place,  and  where  the  path  of  life  is  that  leadeth  to 
those  fields  fruitful  from  the  dew  divine,  at  which 
thirsty  souls  slake  their  thirst.  O  Love,  Thou  alone 
knowest  the  way  that  leads  to  life  and  truth.  .  .  . 
By  Thee,  O  Holy  Ghost,  are  the  best  gifts  poured 


142  DANTE 

upon  us ;  from  Thee  proceed  the  fruitful  seeds  which 
bring  forth  the  fruits  of  life;  from  Thee  emanates 
the  sweet  honey  of  the  delights  that  exist  only  in 
God;  from  Thee  descend  upon  us  the  fertilizing 
waters  of  the  blessings  of  the  Lord  of  hosts,  the  dear, 
rare  gift  of  the   Spirit"    (Third  Exercise). 

And  St.  Catlierine  of  Siena,  in  describing  the  love 
of  the  soul  for  God,  says:  "The  soul,  that  already 
perceiveth  her  own  nothingness,  and  knoweth  that 
all  her  good  lies  in  the  Creator,  abandons  herself  and 
all  her  faculties,  and  all  created  things,  and  im- 
merses herself  wholly  in  her  Creator,  so  that  she 
directs  all  her  workings  wholly  toward  Him,  and 
•will  not  dejDart  at  any  point  from  Him,  in  whom  she 
is  aware  she  has  found  all  good  and  all  perfection  of 
happiness;  and  from  this  union  of  love,  which  in- 
creases in  her  day  by  day,  the  soul  so  transforms 
herself  in  a  certain  manner  into  God  that  she  cannot 
think,  nor  purpose,  nor  love  aught  except  God,  nor 
can  she  remember  aught  else  but  God,  and  she 
perceiveth  neither  self  nor  created  thing  except  in 
God,  and  remembereth  neither  self  nor  created  thing 
save  onh^  in  Him;  just  as  a  man  who  sinks  in  the 
sea  and  swims  beneath  its  waters,  neither  sees  nor 
touches  aught  but  the  waters  of  the  sea  and  things 
that  are  in  the  water,  and  neither  sees,  nor  touches, 
nor  feels  aught  tliat  is  out  of  the  water"  (La  Vita, 
Part  I,  Ch.  X,  Sec.  8).  And  of  her  own  passion  for 
God,  she  says  to  her  confessor:  "So  great  was  the  fire 
of  the  love  of  God,  and  of  my  yearning  to  unite  with 
Him,  whom  I  loved,  that  even  if  my  heart  had  been 
of  stone  or  of  iron,  it  would  have  burst  asunder  in 


INTRODUCTION    TO    THE    PARADISO     143 

like  manner  and  been  opened.  No  created  thing,  I 
believe,  could  have  had  the  power  to  preserve  my 
heart  whole  against  such  power  of  love.  Therefore 
take  it  as  certain  that  the  heart  of  my  little  body 
cracked  from  top  to  bottom  from  the  very  violence 
of  love,  and  lay  all  open,  so  that  I  still  seem  to  feel 
the  marks  of  that  opening.  From  this  you  can  clearly 
gather  that  my  soul  was  wholly  separated  from  my 
body  and  I  saw  the  mysteries  of  God,  which  no 
traveller  can  tell  of,  since  neither  has  the  memory 
power,  nor  can  human  words  suffice,  to  set  forth  in 
proper  manner  matters  so  sublime,  so  that  whatever 
I  could  say  would  be  as  clay  when  matched  with 
gold"   {Vita,  Part  II,  Ch.  VI,  Sec.  21). 

A  similar  state  of  mind  is  told  of,  in  a  more  re- 
strained way,  by  an  American  woman,  Mrs.  Jonathan 
Edwards.  "All  night  I  continued  in  a  constant,  clear 
and  lively  sense  of  the  heavenly  sweetness  of  Christ's 
excellent  and  transcendent  love,  of  his  nearness  to 
me,  and  of  my  dearness  to  him;  with  an  inexpressibly 
sweet  calmness  of  soul  in  an  entire  rest  in  him.  I 
seemed  to  myself  to  perceive  a  glow  of  divine  love 
come  down  from  the  heart  of  Christ  in  heaven,  into 
my  heart,  in  a  constant  stream,  like  a  stream  or 
pencil  of  sweet  light.  At  the  same  time  my  heart  and 
soul  all  flowed  out  in  love  to  Christ;  so  that  there 
seemed  to  be  a  constant  flowing  and  reflowing  of 
heavenly  and  divine  love,  from  Christ's  heart  to 
mine;  and  I  appeared  to  myself  to  float,  or  swim,  in 
these  bright  sweet  beams  of  the  sun,  or  the  streams 
of  his  light  which  came  in  at  the  window.  My  soul 
remained  in   a  kind  of  heavenlv   Elysium.    ...    It 


144  DANTE 

seemed  to  be  all  that  my  feeble  frame  could  sustain, 
of  that  fullness  of  joy,  which  is  felt  by  those  who  be- 
hold the  face  of  Christ,  and  share  his  love  in  the 
heavenly  world.  .  .  .  To  my  imagination  my  soul 
seemed  to  be  gone  out  of  me  to  God  and  Christ  in 
heaven,  and  to  have  very  little  relation  to  my  body. 
God  and  Christ  were  so  present  to  me,  that  I  seemed 
removed  from  mj'self.  .  .  .  When  I  arose  on  the 
morning  of  the  Sabbath,  I  felt  a  love  to  all  mankind, 
wholly  peculiar  in  its  strength  and  sweetness,  far 
beyond  all  that  I  had  ever  felt  before.  The  power  of 
that  love  seemed  to  me  inexpressible.  I  thought,  if 
I  were  surrounded  by  enemies,  who  were  venting 
their  malice  and  cruelty  upon  me,  in  tormenting  me, 
it  would  still  be  impossible  that  I  should  cherish 
any  feelings  towards  them  but  those  of  love,  of  pity, 
and  ardent  desires  for  their  happiness"  (Jan.  28-29- 
30,  17'12). 

But  over  and  above  these  two  ways,  by  the  in- 
tellect and  by  the  heart,  of  proceeding  from  the 
outskirts  of  Paradise  toward  the  very  central  jjoint 
of  spiritual  gravitation,  there  is  (and  Dante  fully 
recognizes  it)  the  mystic  way,  which  is,  it  would 
seem,  due  to  the  action  of  grace.  The  soul,  washed 
and  anointed  as  it  were,  innocent  of  earthly  stains 
and  yearning  for  upward  flight,  of  a  sudden  is  rapt 
on  liigh  into  the  presence  of  God.  The  best  known 
exjjerience  of  this  kind  is  that  of  St.  Paul,  who  says: 
"I  will  come  to  visions  and  revelations  of  the  Lord. 
I  knew  a  man  in  Christ  .  .  .  (whether  in  the  body 
I  cannot  tell ;  or  whether  out  of  the  body,  I  cannot 
tell:   God  knoweth)    such   an   one   caught   up   to   the 


INTRODUCTION    TO    THE    PARADISO     145 

third  heaven.  And  I  knew  sucli  a  man  (whether  in 
the  body  or  out  of  the  body,  I  cannot  tell:  God 
knoweth)  liow  that  he  was  caught  up  into  Paradise, 
and  heard  unspeakable  words"  (II  Cor.  xii,  1-4). 
Dante  uses  very  much  the  same  words  in  the  open- 
ing of  the  Paradiso: 

Nel  ciel  che  piii  della  sua  luce  prende 

fu'  io;  e  vidi  cose  che  ridire 

ne  sa  nb  pub  qual  di  lassu  discende.   .    .    . 
S'  io  era  sol  dl  me  quel  che  crcasti 

novellaniente,  Amor  che  il  ciel  povcrni, 

tu  il  sai,  che  col  tuo  lame  mi  levasti. 

Within  the  heaven  that  of  His  light  doth  most 
Receive,  was  I ;  and  things  beheld,  that  to  retell 
He  neither  knowledge  hath  nor  power,  who  thence 

Comes  down   .    .    . 

If  I  was  tliere  a  bodyless  soul 

In  spirit  only.  Thou  knowest,  O  I.ove, 

That  in  the  heavens  reignest,  for  with  Thy  light 

Thou  didst  me  lift. 

Par.  I,  4-6,  73-75 

Some  people  think  that,  by  these  words,  Dante 
means  to  tell  us  that  he  himself  had  just  such  a 
mystical  experience  as  St.  Paul  had;  others  think 
that  he  speaks  figuratively,  and  was  rapt  to  heaven 
only  in  imagination.  Whichever  it  was,  Dante  shows 
his  belief  in  a  Power  that,  of  a  sudden,  after  the  soul 
has  become  purified,  etherealized,  hallowed  by  pain, 
effort,  prayer,  and  righteousness,  descends  like  a 
ministering  angel  in  a  cloud  of  light,  and,  lifting  her 
up,  bears  her,  higher  and  higher,  to  the  very  top  of 
human  blessedness.  This  belief  is  set  forth  at  length 
in  the  Paradiso. 


C  II  A  !•  T  K  R     XII 

THE  PARADISO 

TO  the  non-philo.soplur.  Paradise  is  primarily  a 
personal  problem;  and  as  such,  although  it 
had  its  universal  aspect  as  well,  it  presented 
itself  to  Dante.  The  Paradiso  is  his  answer  to  the 
problem,  unfolding  the  solution  in  its  several  stages, 
as  a  flower  unfolds  its  encircling  petals,  opening  first 
the  outer  envelope,  and  gradually  disclosing  row  upon 
row,  until  at  last  it  lays  bare  its  very  heart.  From 
heaven  to  heaven,  the  self  mounts  upward  into 
universal  love  and  truth,  but  the  self  is  never  lost, 
neither  is  it  diminislicd,  but  rises  higher  and  higher, 
conscious  and  triumphant. 

Taking  the  narrative  in  its  literal  sense,  the 
analog}'  closest  at  hand  for  the  reader  of  to-day,  is 
to  the  fliglit  of  an  aeroplane,  as  aviators  describe  it. 
The  soul  is  aware  of  a  sudden  motion,  it  rises  from 
the  ground,  esca})ing  from  the  bonds  of  terrestrial 
gravitation,  and  mounts,  higher  and  higher,  soaring 
up  into  the  empyrean,  till  the  earth  becomes  little 
more  than  a  memory,  and  the  blue  vault  of  heaven 
is  above  and  below  .-ind  all  around.  But  for  the 
allegory  this  analogy  must  be  j)ieced  out  with 
another.  The  uprising  soul  is  like  a  young  lover. 
He  sees  the  object  of  his  love,  good  and  beautiful. 
His  passion,  like  purgatorial  fire,  burns  away  the 
146 


PARADISO  147 

dross  within  his  heart,  and  transfuses  all  his  being 
with  yearning  for  goodness  and  beauty;  it  unlooses 
from  his  eyes  the  veil  of  uncharitableness,  and  shows 
him  how  goodness  and  beauty  are  jiresent  in  all 
things, 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here ! 

How   beauteous   mankind   is !   O   brave  new   world, 

That  has  such  people  in't ! 

The  reason  that  all  the  world  loves  a  lover  is  that 
all  the  world  feels  the  presence  of  this  divine  pas- 
sion, and  opens  the  windows  of  its  spirit  to  the  re- 
freshing breath.  So  the  soul  in  Paradise  is  in  love 
and  mounting  higher  and  higher ;  and  in  every  canto 
of  the  Paradiso,  in  almost  every  line,  we  are  bathed 
in  the  light  of  love  and  we  hear  the  beat  of  soaring 
wings. 

Nevertheless,  this  blessedness,  in  itself  the  same, 
is  possessed  in  varying  measure  by  different  persons: 

Differentemente  han  dolce  vita, 
per  sentir  piu  e  men  I'eterno  spiro. 

In  differing  modes  do  they  possess  sweet  life, 
According  as  they  feel,  or  more  or  less,  the  eternal  breath. 

Par.  IV,  35-36 

These  differences  Dante  illustrates  by  means  of  the 
nine  revolving  heavens.  The  Ptolemaic  astronomy 
seems  to  have  been  devised  on  purpose  for  a  prophet- 
poet,  so  admirable  is  the  allegory  it  furnishes  for 
the  spiritual  interpretation  of  life.  The  earth  rests 
immobile  in  the  center,  and  round  it  revolve  sphere 
after   sphere,  upon   the   same   axis,   first  that  of  the 


148  DANTE 

Moon,  then  in  succession  those  of  Mercury,  Venus, 
the  Sun,  Mars,  Jupiter,  Saturn,  the  Fixed  Stars,  and 
the  Primum  Mobile.  In  these  s])liere.s  appear  souls 
of  different  categories.  And  these  different  cate- 
gories exist,  because  even  in  heaven  the  soul  cannot 
free  herself  from  the  mold  in  which  she  has  been 
cast  by  the  experience  of  life;  even  in  the  presence 
of  God  we  do  not  lose  our  personality.  Dante  all  the 
time  reiterates  the  lesson,  that  in  making  our  char- 
acters we  are  building  everlastingly,  for  better  or 
worse.  Souls  that  have  been  dented  by  sin,  or 
stunted  in  their  growth,  cannot  contain  the  grace  of 
God  in  the  same  brimful  measure  as  souls  unspotted 
by  the  world.  Like  the  Inferno  and  the  Purgatorio, 
the  Paradiso  is  the  song  of  a  prophet,  a  passionate 
lover  of  righteousness. 

In  Paradise  the  first  duty  of  the  soul  is  to  submit 
like  a  child  to  the  guidance  of  tlie  highest  aspirations 
that  the  mind  can  compass,  and  this  is  the  guidance 
of  the  Wisdom  of  Love,  of  Beatrice,  the  bringer  of 
beatitude.  So,  in  the  opening  canto,  while  Beatrice 
has  lier  eyes  fixed  on  high,  Dante  fixes  his  eyes  on 
Iicrs,  and  lie  becomes  so  absorbed  in  his  thought  of 
her  that  what  is  left  of  tiie  unspiritual  part  of  his 
nature  falls  away  from  him,  and  he  is  ready  for  his 
journey.  And  since  greater  knowledge  is  the  step- 
ping stone  to  the  greater  love  of  God,  Beatrice  in- 
structs him  as  they  go.  The  first  lesson  is  how  love 
manifests  itself  in  order;  for  love  without  peace  is 
not  love,  and  peace  without  order  is  not  peace.  The 
will  of  God,  which  in  its  ap})lication  to  what  our 
senses  report  we  call  the  laws  of  nature,  prevails  in 


PARADISO  149 

beauty  everywhere  in  heaven;  and  Beatrice,  open- 
ing Dante's  mind  to  how  "the  firmament  showeth 
His  handiwork/'  reveals  to  him  the  workings  of  the 
several  heavenly  spheres  and  their  influences  on  the 
souls  and  destinies  of  men,  and  thereby  explains  to 
him  the  reason  why  men  are  born  different  and  have 
different  lives. 

Dante's  own  conception  of  the  action  of  God's 
energy  in  the  universe  was  in  accordance  with  the 
scholastic  doctrines  of  his  time,  and,  roughly  speak- 
ing, after  this  fashion:  "Within  the  heaven  of  Divine 
Peace/'  that  is,  as  we  may  say,  within  the  un- 
fathomable, encompassing  mind  of  God,  the  first 
revolving  heaven  (within  which  revolve  all  the  lesser 
spheres)  is  vibrant  with  divine  energy;  and  this 
energy,  both  directed  and  altered  by  the  medium 
through  which  it  passes,  proceeds  to  the  inner 
spheres,  affecting  the  nearest  most,  and  those  more 
remote  according  to  their  remoteness,  and  also 
affecting  all  things  contained  within  those  spheres 
according  to  their  several  natures.  In  like  manner 
each  of  the  other  spheres  radiates  this  energy  on- 
ward to  the  spheres  within,  and  to  all  things  within 
them,  but  in  diminished  measure.  This  energy  is 
spiritual ;  it  is  as  if  all  the  universe  were  held  in  the 
arms  of  God  and  received  the  pulsations  of  His 
infinite  heart.  In  this  way,  all  parts  of  the  universe, 
whatever  their  form  or  matter,  receive  this  divine 
energy  and  pass  it  on;  so  that,  although  the  source 
of  all  energy,  mechanical,  vital,  mental,  spiritual,  is 
one,  the  energy  manifests  itself  in  a  myriad  different 
ways   (Par.   II). 


150  1)  A  N  T  E 

All  tlie  wajj^,  either  from  Beatrice  or  from  the 
souls  they  meet,  Dante  learns  the  operation  of  the 
laws  of  God.  Perhaps  the  greatest  lesson  of  all  he 
receives  in  the  lowest  of  the  ten  heavens,  the  sphere 
of  the  Moon.  Here  he  meets  the  soul  of  Piccarda,  a 
Florentine  lady,  who  in  life,  under  compulsion, 
broke  her  nun's  vow  and  married,  and  this  unfaith- 
fulness has  left  its  everlasting  mark.  Dante  asks 
her  if  she  does  not  desire  to  be  in  a  higher  heaven, 
in  a  place  of  greater  glory,  where  she  would  be 
nearer  to  God.  Piccarda  smiles,  as  radiantly  as  if 
she  were  in  the  rapture  of  first  love,  and  answers: 

Frate,  la  nostra  volonta  quieta 

virtii  di  carita,  die  fa  volerne 

sol  quel  ch'  avemo,  e  d'altro  non  ci  a.sseta. 
Se  disiassinio  esser  piu  sui)erne, 

foran  disoordi  gli  nostri  disiri 

dal  voler  di  colui  che  qui  ne  cerne, 
che  vedrai  non  capere  in  questi  fjiri, 

s'  essere  in  caritate  h  qui  necesse, 

e  se  la  sua  natura  hen  rimiri. 
Anzi  c  for  male  ad  esto  l)eato  esse 

tenersi  dentro  alia  divina  voglia, 

per  ch'  una  fens!  nostre  voglie  stesse. 
SI  che,  come  noi  sern  di  soglia  in  soglia 

per  questo  regno,  a  tutto  11  regno  piace, 

come  alio  re  ch'  a  suo  voler  ne  invoglia; 
e  la  sua  volontate  e  nostra  ])ace: 

lirother,  the  quality  of  love  constrains  our  will, 

And  lets  us  only  wish  for  what  we  have. 

And  thirst  for  nothing  more. 
If  we  should  wish  to  he  up  higher  than 

We  are,  our  wills  would  he  at  discord 

With  His  will,  who  put  us  here. 


P  A  R  A  D  I  S  O  151 

And  that  within  these  circles  cannot  be, 
Since  to  live  in  Love  is  here  necessity, 
If  you  consider  well  Love's  nature. 

Rather  it  is  the  law  of  this  life  beatific 
To  keep  ourselves  within  the  Will  Divine, 
So  that  our  several  wills  shall  make  but  one. 

And  so,  being  as  we  are,  from  sphere  to  sphere 
Throughout  this  realm,  gives  joy  to  all  the  realm. 
And  to  our  King,  who  makes  our  wills  like  His. 

And  His  will  is  our  peace. 

Par.    Ill,  70-8T 

This  means  that  contentment  is  an  essential  ele- 
ment in  Paradise,  although  we  needed  no  spirit  come 
back  from  the  realms  of  the  dead  to  tell  us  that; 
and,  in  like  manner,  the  other  spheres  indicate  other 
constituent  parts  of  perfect  blessedness.  In  the  sphere 
of  Mercury,  Dante  meets  the  Emperor  Justinian,  who 
inculcates,  as  the  idea  appropriate  to  that  sphere, 
the  absence  of  worldly  ambition.  In  the  sphere  of 
Venus  Dante  learns  that,  even  though  tainted  by  an 
earthly  element,  true  love  brings  with  it  a  touch 
of  Paradise.  In  the  next  (that  of  the  Sun),  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas,  by  the  story  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  and 
Lady  Poverty,  teaches  that  the  soul,  before  she  can 
enter  Paradise,  must  be  wholly  free  from  material 
cares;  and  St.  Bonaventura,  by  the  story  of  St. 
Dominic,  that  we  must  have  faith,  a  faith  in  some 
end,  whatever  it  be,  a  faith  that  shall  justify  and 
consecrate  the  most  complete  sacrifice  of  self.  In  the 
heaven  of  Mars,  Dante's  ancestor,  Cacciaguida, 
implies  that  heroism  must  temj)er  the  soul;  and  in 
that  of  Jupiter,  the  spirits  of  righteous  kings  symbol- 
ize a  state  of  peace,  order,  and  justice  in  the  soul 


152  I)  A  N  T  E 

which  desires  to  establish  within  lierself  the  kingdom 
of  God. 

Next,  in  the  heaven  of  Saturn,  Dante  comes  to 
the  foot  of  the  Celestial  Ladder,  which  is  the  stair 
of  ascent  towards  what  the  heart  holds  as  best  and 
noblest.  This  ladder  means  Tneditation.  It  is  upon 
the  contemplative  mind,  meditating  on  the  things 
of  God,  that  the  power  and  peace  of  the  spirit  shed 
their  refreshment,  whether  that  power  and  peace 
come  direct  from  God  or  from  the  subconscious 
mind,  or  from  the  treasure  house  of  rest — judge  it 
as  you  please.  James  Martineau,  that  modern 
English  saint,  says  of  meditation:  "Its  view  is  not 
personal  and  particular,  but  universal  and  immense. 
...  It  brings  not  an  intense  self-consciousness  and 
spiritual  egotism,  but  almost  a  renunciation  of  in- 
dividuality, a  mingling  with  the  universe,  a  lapse  of 
our  little  drop  of  existence  into  the  boundless  ocean 
of  being.  It  does  not  find  for  us  our  place  in  the 
known  world,  but  loses  it  for  us  in  the  unknown.  It 
puts  nothing  clearly  beneath  our  feet,  but  a  vault  of 
awful  beauty  above  our  head.  It  gives  us  no  matter 
for  criticism  and  doubt,  but  everything  for  wonder 
and  love.  It  does  not  suggest  indirect  demonstration, 
but  furnishes  immediate  j)erception  of  things  divine, 
eye  to  eye  with  the  saints,  spirit  to  spirit  with  God, 
peace  to  peace  with  Heaven.  In  thus  being  alone 
with  the  truth  of  things  and  passing  from  sliows 
and  shadows  into  consciousness  with  the  Everlasting 
One,  there  is  nothing  at  all  imj)ossible  and  out  of 
reach"  {Endeavours  after  a  Christian  Life,  p.  258). 
And    Jonathan    Edwards   says   of   his   thoughts   in    a 


PARA  D  ISO  153 

time  of  meditation:  "I  walked  abroad  alone,  in  a 
solitary  place  in  my  father's  pasture,  for  contem- 
plation. And  as  I  was  walking  there,  and  looking 
upon  the  sky  and  clouds,  there  came  into  my  mind 
so  sweet  a  sense  of  the  glorious  majesty  and  grace 
of  God,  as  I  know  not  how  to  express.  I  seemed  to 
see  them  both  in  a  sweet  conjunction;  majesty  and 
meekness  joined  together;  it  was  a  sweet,  and  gentle, 
and  holy  majesty;  and  also  a  majestic  sweetness; 
an  awful  sweetness ;  a  high,  and  great,  and  holy 
gentleness.  After  this  my  sense  of  divine  things 
gradually  increased,  and  became  more  and  more 
lively,  and  had  more  of  that  inward  sweetness. 
The  appearance  of  everything  was  altered;  there 
seemed  to  be,  as  it  were,  a  calm,  sweet  cast,  or 
appearance  of  divine  glory  in  almost  everything. 
God's  excellency,  his  wisdom,  his  purity  and  love, 
seemed  to  appear  in  everything;  in  the  sun,  moon, 
and  stars ;  in  the  clouds  and  blue  sky ;  in  the  grass, 
flowers,  trees;  in  the  water  and  all  nature;  which 
used  greatly  to  fix  my  mind.  I  often  used  to  sit  and 
view  the  moon  for  a  long  time ;  and  in  the  day  spent 
much  time  in  viewing  the  clouds  and  sky,  to  behold 
the  sweet  glory  of  God  in  these  things ;  in  the  mean- 
time, singing  forth,  with  a  low  voice,  my  contempla- 
tions of  the  Creator  and  Redeemer." 

The  exercise  of  meditation  or  contemplation — for 
they  merge  into  one  another — procures  the  fulfill- 
ment of  the  benediction,  "May  the  peace  of  God 
which  passeth  all  understanding  keep  your  hearts  and 
minds  in  the  knowledge  and  love  of  God" ;  it  fixes 
the  heart  and  mind  on  spiritual  values,  and  of  neces- 


15-i  DANTE 

sit}-  discloses  the  falseness  of  worldly  measures. 
So  Dante,  "le  luce  sue  chiare  ed  acute,  his  eyes  clear 
and  keen"  (^Par.  XXII,  126),  looking  down  from  on 
high  througli  all  the  lower  spheres,  sees  our  world 
and  smiling  at  its  obvious  worthlessness,  says: 

E  quel  consiglio  per  rnigliore  approbo 
che  I'ha  per  meno,  e  chi  ad  altro  pensa 
chiarnar  si  puo  veraceniente  probo. 

And  1  esteem  that  wisdom  best 

NN'hich  rates  the  world  at  least;  and  he  whose  thoughts 
Are  elsewhere  fixed,   deserves  the  name  of  good. 

Par.  XXII,  13fi-138 

Having  learned  to  hold  the  world  cheaj),  the  soul 
contemplates  the  spirit  of  Christ  and  its  effect  upon 
those  who  were  nearest  to  Him,  Mary  and  the 
Apostles.  Then,  by  such  contemplation  deepened 
and  ennobled,  the  soul  .seeks  to  take  her  own  measure, 
to  know  herself,  to  make  essay,  by  examination  of 
her  deepest  beliefs,  whether  she  is  capable  of  still 
greater  heights  and  of  ultimate  union  with  God.  In 
the  allegory  this  process  is  represented  bj^  an  ex- 
amination of  Dante,  as  to  his  faith  by  St.  Peter, 
as  to  his  hope  by  St.  James,  and  as  to  his  love  by  St. 
John.  "Faith  is  the  substance  of  things  hoped  for, 
the  evidence  of  things  not  seen"  (Hebrews  xi,  I); 
or,  as  it  may  be  expressed  in  terms  more  current 
to-day.  Faith  is  the  belief  in  a  spiritual  order,  which 
we  cannot  define,  fenced  in  as  we  are  by  corporeal 
experience,  and  yet  we  think  we  can  judge  wliat  road 
humanity  must  travel  in  order  to  come  into  deeper 
relations  therewith. 


P  A  11  A  1)  I  S  O  155 

lo   credo    in    uno   Iddio 
solo  ed  eterno,  che  tutto  il  ciel  move, 
noil  nioto,  con  aniorc  e  con  disio. 

I  believe  in  one  God 
Single  and  everlasting  who,  Himself  unmoved. 
Moves  all  the  heaven,  by  love  and  longing. 

Par.  XXIV,  130-132 

This  dogma  means  that  there  is  universal  unity, 
that  all  things  are  one,  explain  their  separation, 
their  discord,  their  contradictions  and  antagonisms, 
how  you  will,  and  that  all  things  seek,  by  a  tran- 
scendental law  of  mutual  attraction — which  in  the 
language  of  the  human  heart  we  call  love  and 
longing — to  attain  to  the  highest  fulfillment  of  their 
potential  life,  whatever  that  life  may  be. 

"Hope  is  the  certain  expectation  of  future  glory, 
and   is    due   to   divine    grace   and   antecedent   merit." 

Speme   .    .    .   e  uno  attender  certo 
della   gloria   futura,  il  qual  produce 
grazia  divina  e  precedente  merto. 

Ih.   XXV,  67-69 

But  it  does  not  require  Dante's  knowledge  of  theol- 
ogy to  discern  that  hoi)e  is  the  foundation  of  religion. 
Hope  is  to  men  the  assurance  of  a  divine  comjaassion ; 
it  blesses  the  meanest  creatures.  It  is  the  music  that 
ushers  in  belief.  It  is  the  watchman  on  the  turret's 
top  who  sees  the  far-off  runner  bringing  news  of 
victory.  Its  vagueness,  its  amplitude,  its  confidence, 
are  so  many  witnesses  to  a  nobler  order  in  which  the 
soul  of  man  shall  be  lifted  up.  It  is  certainly  brought 
forth    by    grace    divine — for    it    bears    the    marks    of 


156  DANTE 

divine  origin ;  and  preceding  merit  cooperates,  for 
sin  which  stifles  every  merit  is  not  a  soil  that  can 
bring  forth  such  a  plant.  And  with  Dante,  as  with 
many  anotlier  man,  belief  in  the  highest  promises  of 
hoi)e  comes  from  the  testimony  of  great  hearts  who 
have  had  a  rich  experience  of  life.  For  him  the  words 
of  David, — "They  tliat  know  Thy  name  will  put 
their  trust  in  Thee"  (Psalm  ix,  10) — were  of  great 
significance,  and  also  what  St.  James  says  in  his 
epistle,  partly,  perhaps,  from  the  words  themselves, 
and  partly  because  St.  James  was  the  familiar  friend 
of  Jesus  Christ:  "My  brethren,  count  it  all  joy  when 
ye  fall  into  divers  temptations;  knowing  this,  that 
the  trying  of  your  faith  worketh  patience.  But  let 
patience  have  her  perfect  work,  that  ye  may  be 
perfect  and  entire,  wanting  nothing.  If  any  of  you 
lack  wisdom,  let  him  ask  of  God,  that  giveth  to  all 
men  liberally,  and  upbraideth  not;  and  it  shall  be 
given  him.  .  .  .  Blessed  is  the  man  that  endureth 
tem))tation:  for  when  he  is  tried  he  shall  receive 
the  crown  of  life.  .  .  .  Every  good  gift  and  every 
perfect  gift  is  from  above,  and  cometh  down  from 
the  Fatlier  of  lights,  with  whom  is  no  variableness, 
neither  shadow  of  turning.  Of  his  own  will  begat  he 
us  with  the  word  of  truth,  that  we  should  be  a  kind 
of  first-fruits  of  his  creatures.  .  .  .  The  wisdom  that 
is  from  above  is  first  pure,  then  peaceable,  gentle, 
and  easy  to  be  intreatcd,  full  of  mercy  and  good 
fruits,  without  partiality,  and  without  hypocrisy. 
.  .  .  Know  ye  not  that  the  friendship  of  the  world  is 
enmity  with  God?  whosoever  therefore  will  be  a 
friend  of  the  world,  is  the  enemy  of  God.  .    .    .  Draw 


P  A  R  A  D  I  S  O  157 

nigh  to  God  and  he  will  draw  nigh  to  you.  .  .  . 
Humble  yourselves  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord,  and  he 
shall  lift  you  up.  ...  Is  any  among  you  afflicted.^ 
Let  him  pray"  (James  i,  iii,  iv,  v). 

As  to  love,  Dante  says  that  God  is  the  object  of 
all  love.  He  learned  this  first  from  philosophic  argu- 
ments. Good  that  is  recognized  as  good  kindles  love, 
and  the  greater  the  good,  the  greater  the  love;  there- 
fore Perfect  Good  must  kindle  the  strongest  love; 
and  this '  rational  reasoning  was  confirmed  by  au- 
thority, by  Aristotle,  by  the  Book  of  Exodus, — "I 
will  make  all  my  goodness  pass  before  Thee"  (xxxiii, 
19) — and  by  Revelation.  Besides  this,  man's  love 
for  God  is  due  to  gratitude  for  creation  of  the  world 
and  of  himself,  and  for  redemption.  Dante  puts  this 
examination  and  appraisal  of  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity  in  language  most  readily  intelligible  to  his 
contemporaries,  but  every  man  must  make  them 
for  himself;  and  unless  he  can  find  a  place  in  his  soul 
for  each  of  the  three,  he  cannot  hope  (so  Dante  says) 
to  build  a  Kingdom  of  Heaven  within  him. 

Thus  qualified  to  go  upward,  Dante  mounts 
through  the  last  revolving  sphere  up  to  the  empy- 
rean, eternal  peace,  which  lying  outside  the  barriers 
of  time  and  space,  enfolds  creation, — 

al  ciel,  ch'  e  pura  luce; 
luce   intelletual   plena  d'amore, 
amor  di  vero  ben  pien  di  letizia, 
letizia  che  trascende  ogni  dolzore; 

the  heaven  which  is  pure  light; 
Light  intellectual  filled  full  of  gladness, 

Gladness  that  doth  transcend  all  sweetness. 

Par.  XXX,  39-42 


158  I)  ANTE 

Luine  ^  lassu,  che  visible  face 
lo  Creatore  a  quclla  crcatura, 
che  solo   in  liii  vedere  ha  la  sua  ]iace; 

Up  yonder  is  the  lijiht  that  visil)le 

jSIakes  the  Creator  lo  tlie  created  soul, 
Which  only  in  beholding  Him  has  jieace. 

Ih.  100-103 

The  soul  has  now  mounted  very  high,  and  is  coming 
close  to  the  fulfillment  of  all  desire ;  and  as  it  nears 
its  Beloved,  expectation  and  desire  become  intense. 
To  those  who  do  not  know  Avhat  it  is  to  love,  this 
passion  of  the  soul  is  incomprehensible,  St.  Gertrude 
says:  "Here  I  am,  coming  nearer  to  Thee,  Thou 
Devouring  Fire,  O  my  God!  In  the  fiery  flames  of 
Thy  love  devour  me^  consume  me,  absorb  mc,  poor 
grain  of  dust.  Here  am  I,  coming  nearer  to  Thee,  O 
my  gentle  Light!  Cause  Thy  face  to  shine  upon  me; 
and  my  darkness  shall  be  in  Th)'  presence  as  brilliant 
as  the  sun  at  noon.  Here  am  I,  coming  nearer  to 
Thee,  O  Blessedness !  Make  me  one  with  Thee,  by 
that  burning  love  that  draws  Thee  towards  Thy 
creatures  to  unite  them  to  Thee"  (Fourth  Exercise). 
All  the  mystics  felt  as  slie  did.  The  Em])yrean  is  the 
passion  of  love  for  (iod  at  its  heiglit.  And  here  Uante 
hardly  appeals  to  what  we  may  ever  expect  to  learn 
through  exj)eriencc,  but  rather  to  what  we  may  hope 
to  apprehend  through  the  imagination,  by  means 
of  spiritual  inferences  from  earthly  love. 

In  tliis  ultimate  heaven  Dante,  his  eyes  endued 
with  superhuman  power  to  bear  the  sight,  stands 
before  the  mystic  Rose,  whose  petals  are  the  souls 
triumj)hant    that    encircle    God.    Here    Beatrice    calls 


P  A  R  A  1)  I  S  O  159 

St.  Bernard,  and  commends  Dante  to  his  charge. 
St.  Bernard  is  the  symbol  of  mystical  contemplation. 
The  mind,  struggling  to  compass  the  transcendental, 
gazes  on  some  symbol  of  spirit,  as  the  bodily  eyes 
gaze  on  the  beryl  stone,  and  beholds  visions  that  in 
its  normal  state  it  does  not  see.  This  supernormal 
yearning  of  the  soul  seems  to  burst  the  bonds  of 
sense,  and  escape  the  limitations  of  humanity.  The 
final  means  is  prayer.  St.  Bernard  prays  to  the  Virgin 
jNIary  that  Dante  may  behold  God  face  to  face. 

The  Virgin  Mary  is  the  embodiment,  or  the  sym- 
bol, of  those  manifestations  of  God  that  stir  in  us 
spiritual  feelings  which,  even  in  our  fallen  state, 
rank  next  in  power  to  the  j^rimitive  animal  imjiulses, 
and,  when  once  the  purgatorial  process  has  begun 
within  our  souls,  lightly  triumph  over  all  instincts. 
As  Virgin,  she  demands  the  romantic  admiration 
for  loveliness  and  the  chivalric  reverence  for  purity, 
such  as  young  Dante  felt  when  he  met  Beatrice  in 
the  streets  of  Florence;  as  the  ^ladonna,  she  repre- 
sents the  compassion,  the  tender  understanding,  the 
self-abnegation,  and  the  adoration  of  the  mother 
for  the  child,  who  in  turn  is  the  symbol  of  a  higher 
life  to  come.  To  her  St.  Bernard  prays  (Par.  xxxiii)  : 

Vergine  inadre,  fifjlia  del  tuo  figlio, 

umile  ed  alta  piii  che  creatura, 

terniine  fisso  d'eterno  consiglio, 
tu  se'  colei,  che  I'umana  natura 

nobilitasti  si  che  il  sue  Fattore 

non  disdegno  di  farsi  sua  fattura. 
Nel  ventre  tuo  si  raccese  raniore, 

per  lo  cui  caldo  nell'  eterna  pace 

COS!  e  germinato  questo  fiore, 


1 60  1)  ANTE 

(}ui  sei  a  noi  meridiana  face 

di  caritate,  e  giuso,  intra  i  niortali, 
sc'i  di  speranza  fontana  vivace. 

Donna,  sei  tanto  grande  e  tanto  vali, 

che  qual  vuol  grazia  ed  a  te  non  ricorre, 
sua  disianza  vuol  volar  senz'  ali. 

La  tua  benignita  non  pur  soccorre 
a  chi  doinanda,  ma  molte  fiate 
liberaniente  al  doinandar  ])recorre. 

Thou  mayde  and  mooder,  doghter  of  thy  sone, 

Thou  welle  of  mercy,  sinful  soules  cure, 

In  whom  that  God,  for  bountee,  chees  to  wone;i 

Thou  humlile,  and  heigh  over  every  creature, 

Thou  nol)ledest  so  ferforth  our  nature. 

That  no  desdayn  the  maker  hadde  of  kinde,-' 

His  son  in  blode  and  flesh  to  clothe  and  winde. 

W  itiiinne  the  cloistre  blisful  of  tiiy  sydes 

Took  mannes  shaj)  the  eternal  love  and  pees, 

That  of  the  tryne  compas  lord  and  gydes  is, 

Whom  erthe,  and  see,  and  heven,  out  of  relees,'* 

Ay  herien;''  and  thou,  virgine  wemmelees,** 

Bar  of  thy  l)ody,  and  dwcltcst  maiden  ))ure, 

The  creatour  of  every  creature. 

Assembled  in  thee  magnificence 

W'itii  mercy,  goodnesse,  and  with  svvich"  j)itee. 

That  thou,  that  art  the  sonnc  of  excellence, 

Nat  only  helpest  hem  that  preyen  thee, 

Hut  ofte  tyme,  of  thy  benignitee, 

I'll  I  frely,  er  that  men  thyn  help  biseche, 

Tliou  goost  biforn,  and  art  hirs  lyves  leche.!* 

CiiAucEH,  The  Seconde  Nonnes  Tale, 
vv.  ."ifi-SG 

1  to  dwell.  -  huinanity. 

•'»  lord  and  guide  of  the  threefold  region. 

■•  without   ceasing.  ^  always   i)raise.  '•  stainless. 

7  such  »*  their.  "leach   (physician). 


P  A  R  A  1)  I  S  O  161 

St.  Bernard  then  points  to  Dante: 

Or  questi,  die  dall'  infima  lacuna 

dell'  universo  infin  qui  ha  vedute 

le  vite  spiritali  ad  una  ad  una, 
supplica  a  te,  per  grazia,  di  virtute 

tanto  che  possa  con  gli  occhl  levarsi 

pill  alto  verso  I'ultima  salute. 

Now  this  man  here,  who  from  the  lowest  pit 
Of  all  the  universe,  even  up  to  here, 
Has  seen  the  lives  of  spirits,  one  by  one, 

Beseeches  thee,  through  grace,  for  so  much  power 
That  with  his  eyes  he  may  have  strength  to  look 
Still  higher,  towards  the  final  blessedness. 

Par.  XXXIII,  23-2T 

Mary  grants  the  prayer,  and  turns  her  eyes  towards 
God.  Then  Dante  speaks  of  himself: 

Ed  io  ch'  al  fine  di  tutti  i  disii 

m'  apj)ropii)quava,  si  coin'  io  dovea, 
r  ardor  del  desiderio  in  mi  finii; 

ehfe  la  mia  vista,  venendo  sincera, 
e  piu  e  pill  entrava  per  Io  raggio 
deir  lata  luce,  che  da  sfe  h  vera. 

And  as  I  toward  the  goal  of  all  desire 

Was  drawing  nigh,  the  ardor  of  my  yearning' 
In  me  died,  as  it  must  do. 

Because  my  vision,  growing  purified, 
Dee])er  and  deeper  entered  in  the  beam 
Of  the  light  profound,  which  is  the  Truth  itself. 

A   quella  luce  cotal   si  diventa, 

che  volgersi  da  lei  per  altro  as])etto 
e  impossibil  che  mai  si  consenta. 


162  B  A  N  T  E 

Pero  che  il  ben,  ch'  e  del  voler  ol)bietto, 
tutto  s'accoglie  in  lei,  e  fuor  di  quella 
t  difettivo  eio  clic  li  e  perfetto. 

From  this  light  such  doth  a  man  l)ecorae, 

That  for  another  siglit  to  turn  from  it 

His  will  could  not  consent. 
Because  the  Good,  which  is  the  ol)ject  of  the  will 

Is  wholly  gathered  there,  and  that  which  there 

Is  perfect,  away  from  it  imperfect  is. 

lb.  46-48,  52-54,  100-105 

But  the  vision  of  Beauty,  Truth,  Love,  beheld  in 
ecstatic  contemplation,  cannot  be  told;  memory 
retains  but  little,  and  our  speech  cannot  deliver  what 
little  may  be  remembered: 

Omai  sara  piu  corta  mia  favella, 

pure  a  quel  ch'io  ricordo,  che  di  un  fante 
che  l)agni  ancor  la  lingua  alia  maminella. 

And  now  my  speech  nmst  fall  more  short 
Of  what  I  still  remember,  than  a  babe's 
Whose    tongue    still    nurses    its    mother's    brea.st. 

Jh.   106-108 

And  the  great  vi.sion  ends  with   a  reiteration  of   the 

fundamental    dogma   of  living   faith,  that   the   power 

which  moves  the  universe  is  best  interpreted  by  love, 

I'amor  che  move  il  sole  e  I'altre  stelle. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THE  LAST   YEARS 

TOWARDS  the  end  of  his  life  Dante  lived  for 
a  time  at  Verona,  where  Can  Grande  della 
Scala  must  have  treated  him  with  honorable 
distinction,  for  Dante  reiterates  his  admiration  and 
gratitude.  And  the  last  years  he  passed  at  Ravenna. 
Guido  da  Polenta,  interesting  to  us  as  nephew  of 
Francesca  da  Rimini,  was  lord  of  the  city.  In  Dante's 
time,  of  all  Italian  cities,  Ravenna,  next  to  Rome, 
was  richest  in  classical  antiquities.  The  architectural 
monuments  built  during  the  brilliant  period  of  the 
restoration  of  the  Roman  Empire  in  Italy  by  Jus- 
tinian and  during  the  reigns  of  his  Gothic  prede- 
cessors were  far  more  ancient  to  Dante  than  Dante's 
times  are  to  us.  The  Florence  that  Dante  knew  had 
nothing  of  the  Florence  we  know  but  the  Baptistery, 
the  Bargello,  and  the  Badia.  Santa  Maria  del 
Fiore,  Giotto's  tower,  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  Santa 
Croce,  Santa  Maria  Novella  (in  its  present  form), 
Orsamraichale,  the  churches  and  palaces  of  the 
Renaissance,  have  utterly  changed  the  aspect  of  the 
city.  But  Ravenna  had  then  the  very  basilicas, 
chapels,  baptisteries,  palaces,  and  camjjanili  that 
tourists  visit  to-day,  save  only  that  time  had  buf- 
feted them  less.  The  Emperor  Justinian  and  his 
Empress  Theodora  looked  down  upon  Dante  out  of 
163 


164  1)  ANTE 

the  mosaics  in  S.  Vitale  as  somber  and  sad  as  they 
now  look  down  on  us ;  and  not  the  least  part  of  our 
interest  in  them  is  that  he  must  have  knelt,  and 
said  his  prayers  for  the  j^olitical  regeneration  of 
Italy,  on  the  stone  floor  beneath  them. 

Here  Dante  lived  in  much  honor  but,  it  appears, 
in  straitened  circumstances,  for  tradition  alleges 
that  he  taught  poetry.  His  two  sons  and  his  daughter 
Beatrice  joined  him,  but  it  would  seem  that  they  did 
not  live  together.  And  here  he  finished  the  Divine 
Comedy.  These  last  years,  to  judge  from  the  Paradiso 
and  from  some  bantering  bucolic  poems  which  he 
exchanged  with  an  ardent  young  classical  scholar 
and  poet,  Giovanni  del  Virgilio,  were  calm  and 
mellow.  He  knew  that  his  work  was  done;  he  had 
experienced  sin,  suffering,  purification,  and  the 
peace  of  complete  acceptance  of  God's  will,  and  he 
had  embodied  his  exiicrience  in  a  poem  that  he  felt 
to  be  sacred  {Par.  XXV,  1).  He  had  cherished  a 
hope  that  the  renown  of  his  poem  would  induce  the 
Florentines  to  call  him  liome  and  bestow  the  laurel 
crown  upon  him  in  the  baptistery  of  San  Giovanni 
{Par.  XXV,  1-10  and  Eclogue  I);  but  that  hope 
was  vain,  and  he  would  not  entertain  tlie  idea  of 
being  crowned  in  Bologna. 

While  at  Ravenna,  Dante  made  a  visit  to  Verona, 
and  there,  before  a  distinguished  audience,  delivered 
a  learned  geological  discourse  to  explain  how  it  is 
that,  although  earth  is  heavier  than  water,  so  much 
of  the  earth's  surface  stands  up  above  tlie  level  of 
the  sea.  He  was  also  emi)loyt;d  on  at  least  one  diplo- 
matic  errand    for   Count   Guido    Novello.    The    Doge 


THE    LAST    YEARS  165 

of  Venice,  aggrieved  by  insults  and  injuries  to  lier 
galleys  and  seamen  by  the  people  of  Ravenna,  de- 
clared war  and  stirred  up  the  lords  of  the  towns 
about  Ravenna  (for  to  be  a  neighbor  meant  to  be 
unfriendly)  to  join  him  in  hostilities  against  her. 
The  situation  was  serious  for  Count  Guido.  He  sent 
a  hasty  apology  and  promises  of  reparation;  and 
selected  Dante  as  envoy,  on  account  of  his  talents 
and  reputation,  to  help  bring  the  quarrel  to  a  peace- 
ful conclusion.  Dante  went,  and  on  his  return  journey 
caught  a  fever  of  which  he  died.  Boccaccio  tells  of 
his  death  as  follows : 

"In  the  month  of  September,  in  the  year  of  Christ 
1321,  on  the  day  in  which  the  Church  celebrates  the 
Exaltation  of  the  Holy  Cross,  to  the  very  great  grief 
of  Count  Guido  and,  generally,  of  all  the  citizens  of 
Ravenna,  he  gave  up  his  weary  sjjirit  to  the  Creator; 
and  I  doubt  not  that  it  was  received  into  the  arms  of 
the  most  noble  Beatrice,  with  whom,  in  the  sight  of 
Him  who  is  the  Supreme  God,  having  left  the  miseries 
of  this  present  life,  he  now  lives  most  joyfully  in  that 
life  to  whose  felicity  no  end  can  be  imagined.  The 
magnanimous  Knight  [Count  Guido]  caused  Dante's 
body  on  its  bier  to  be  dressed  in  the  garb  of  a  poet, 
and  carried  on  the  shoulders  of  the  most  distinguished 
citizens  to  the  church  of  the  Franciscan  Friars  in 
Ravenna,  with  the  honors  that  he  thought  be- 
fitted such  mortal  remains ;  a  procession  followed  it 
there,  as  if  the  state  were  mourning,  and  [the  Count] 
had  it  laid  in  an  ark  of  stone,  in  which  it  still  lies. 
He  then  went  back  to  the  house  in  which  Dante 
lived,    and,    according    to    the    customs    of    Ravenna, 


1G6  DAN  T  E 

delivered  a  long  and  elegant  discourse,  in  praise  of 
the  profound  learning  and  of  the  virtue  of  the  de- 
ceased, as  well  as  for  the  consolation  of  the  friends 
whom  he  had  left  in  bitter  grief.  And  he  made 
arrangements  (if  only  his  government  and  his  life 
had  lasted)  to  honor  him  with  so  remarkable  a 
tomb,  that  had  Dante  possessed  no  other  qualities 
to  hand  down  his  memory  to  future  times,  that 
would  have  done  so."  But  Count  Guido  was  driven 
out  from  Ravenna  by  his  enemies,  and  his  plan  for 
a  tomb  got  no  further  than  a  Latin  epitaph  writ- 
ten by  Dante's  friend,  Giovanni  del  Virgilio.  Later 
generations  erected  a  tomb  and  monument;  and 
there  Dante's  bones  still  lie. 

The  times  and  places  when  and  where  the  Comedy 
was  written  are  not  known.  Boccaccio  reports  this 
gossip:  The  first  seven  cantos  of  the  Inferno  had  been 
written  by  Dante  before  his  exile,  and  left  behind  in 
a  chest;  they  were  found  by  chance  and  sent  after 
him,  and  the  poet,  urged  by  his  friends,  went  on  with 
the  work.  Boccaccio  further  reports  that  it  was 
Dante's  custom,  when  he  had  finished  six  or  eight 
cantos,  to  send  them  on  to  Can  Grande,  who  dis- 
tributed copies  of  them.  And  he  adds  this  curious 
story.  "In  this  way  [Dante]  had  sent  to  [Can 
Grande]  all  but  the  last  thirteen  cantos  [of  the 
Parafliso],  which  had  been  written  but  not  sent  on; 
and  then  it  haj)pened  that  he  died,  without  leaving 
any  memorandum  of  them.  His  children  and  pupils 
hunted  through  his  j)a})crs,  many  times,  for  months, 
to  see  if  he  liad  not  completed  the  work,  but  they 
could    not    find    the    remaining    cantos    in    any    way; 


T  HE    I.  A  S  T    Y  E  A  R  S  167 

and  they  were  in  despair  that  they  could  not;  and 
all  his  friends  were  greatly  vexed  that  God  had  not 
left  him  in  the  world  at  least  long  enough  to  have 
finished  the  little  that  remained  of  his  work.  Dante's 
sons,  Jacopo  and  Pietro,  each  of  whom  wrote 
verses,  persuaded  by  some  of  their  friends,  made  up 
their  minds  to  supplement  as  well  as  they  could, 
their  father's  work,  so  that  it  sliould  not  go  forth  in 
an  imperfect  state ;  when  Jacopo,  who  was  much 
more  eager  than  the  other,  had  a  wonderful  vision, 
which  not  only  saved  him  from  his  foolish  presump- 
tion, but  also  showed  him  where  the  thirteen  cantos 
were,  which  the  Comedy  lacked  and  they  had  been 
unable  to  find. 

"A  worthy  man  of  Ravenna,  most  respectable 
and  trustworthy  [and  Boccaccio  s})eaks  of  him 
elsewhere  as  one  of  the  most  intimate  friends  of 
Dante  in  Ravenna,  and  as  having  been  with  Dante 
in  his  last  illness] — his  name  was  Piero  Giardino 
and  he  had  been  a  pupil  of  Dante  for  a  long  time — 
used  to  tell  this  story.  One  night,  eight  months  after 
his  teacher's  [i.e.  Dante's]  death,  towards  morning, 
Jacopo  aforesaid  came  to  his  house,  and  said  to  him 
that,  that  night  a  little  while  before  the  time  it  was 
then,  while  he  was  asleep,  he  had  seen  his  father 
Dante,  dressed  in  very  white  garments  and  with  a 
strange  light  shining  in  his  countenance,  come  to 
him.  He  seemed  to  ask  his  father  if  he  were  alive 
and  to  hear  from  him  the  answer  yes,  but  in  the  true 
life,  not  ours.  Then,  moreover,  he  seemed  to  ask  his 
father  also  if  he  had  finished  his  work  before  passing 
to  the  true  life,  and  if  he  had  finished  it,  where  was 


168  DANTE 

the  part  that  vras  lacking  and  that  they  had  never 
been  able  to  find.  To  this  he  seemed  to  hear  an  answer 
for  the  second  time,  'Yes,  I  finished  it.'  And  then  it 
seemed  to  him  that  his  father  took  him  by  the  hand 
and  led  him  into  the  room  in  which  he  used  to  sleep 
when  he  was  living  in  this  life;  and  touching  one 
part  of  the  room,  said,  'What  you  have  looked  for 
so  much  is  here.'  After  these  words  were  said,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  sleep  and  Dante  departed  at  the 
same  moment.  Because  of  all  this,  he  [i.e.  Jacopo] 
asserted,  that  he  could  not  keep  from  coming  to  see 
him  to  tell  what  he  had  seen,  so  that  they  should  go 
together  to  look  in  the  place  shown  him  (which  he 
had  carefully  noted  in  his  memory)  to  see  whether  a 
true  ghost  or  a  false  delusion  had  pointed  it  out. 
Wherefore,  as  there  was  still  a  good  bit  of  night 
left,  they  went  along  together,  and  came  to  the 
house  in  which  Dante  was  living  when  he  died. 
They  called  the  man  who  was  then  occupj'ing  the 
house,  and  were  admitted.  They  went  to  the  place 
indicated,  and  there  they  found  a  matting  fastened 
to  the  wall,  just  as  they  had  always  seen  it  there 
in  the  past.  This  they  lifted  up  gently,  and  saw  a 
little  recess  in  the  wall  which  none  of  them  had  ever 
seen  or  known  was  there ;  and  in  it  they  found  some 
manuscripts  all  moldy  from  tlie  dampness  of  the 
wall,  and  close  to  being  ruined  if  they  had  been  left 
there  any  longer.  They  cleaned  all  the  mold  away, 
read  the  manuscripts  and  saw  that  they  contained 
the  thirteen  cantos  which  they  had  looked  for  so 
much.  So,  perfectly  delighted,  they  sent  these, 
copied   out,   to   Messer    Can    [Grande]    according   to 


THE    LAST    YEARS  169 

the  author's  custom,  and  they  were  then  added  to 
the  incomplete  part  where  they  belonged.  In  this 
way  the  work,  put  together  in  the  course  of  years, 
was  brought  to  completion"  {Trattatello  in  laude  di 
Dante,  and  the  Comjjendio).  As  Boccaccio  was  per- 
sonally acquainted  with  Piero  Giardino,  the  story 
in  its  outline  deserves  to  be  believed. 

Boccaccio,  in  his  Life  of  Dante,  also  gives  this 
familiar  account  of  his  appearance  and  ways:  "Our 
poet  was  of  medium  height;  and,  after  he  had  come 
to  middle  age,  he  was  somewhat  bent.  In  his  move- 
ments he  was  serious  and  gentle,  and  he  always  wore 
very  neat  clothes,  cut  suitably  according  to  his  age. 
His  face  was  long,  his  nose  aquiline,  his  eyes  rather 
big  than  little,  large  jaws,  and  his  lower  lip  pro- 
truded beyond  the  upper.  His  coloring  was  dark, 
his  hair  and  beard  thick,  black  and  curly,  and  there 
was  always  a  thoughtful  melancholy  in  his  counte- 
nance. ...  In  his  manners  at  home  and  abroad  he 
was  wonderfully  measured  and  self-contained,  and 
most  courteous  and  civil  in  every  respect.  He  was 
very  temperate  in  eating  and  drinking,  going  to  his 
meals  at  the  hours  set,  and  not  taking  more  than 
he  needed.  He  was  never  an  epicure  either  in  eating 
or  drinking;  he  praised  the  abstemious,  generally 
ate  simple  food,  and  blamed  exceedingly  those  who 
give  a  great  part  of  their  attention  to  procuring 
choice  dishes  and  to  seeing  that  they  are  cooked  with 
great  care,  asserting  that  such  people  did  not  eat  in 
order  to  live,  but  lived  in  order  to  eat.  No  one  was 
more  keen  than  he  in  his  studies  or  whatever  other 
interest  occupied  him;  so  much  so  that  his  wife  and 


170  DANTE 

his  household  were  often  annoyed  before  they  got 
used  to  his  ways  and  had  become  indifferent  to 
them.  He  seldom  spoke  unless  he  was  spoken  to, 
and  then  with  consideration,  adapting  his  voice  to 
the  subject  of  which  he  was  talking;  nevertheless, 
when  it  was  appropriate,  he  was  very  eloquent  and 
fluent  in  his  discourse  and  liad  a  ready  and  admirable 
delivery. 

"In  his  youth  lie  took  the  greatest  pleasure  in 
music  and  singing,  and  he  used  to  frequent  and  make 
great  friends  with  all  the  best  singers  and  musicians. 
Prompted  by  the  j)leasure  he  got  from  this  he  com- 
posed many  poems,  which  these  friends,  at  his 
request,  set  to  agreeable  and  admirable  accompani- 
ment.   .    .    . 

"He  liked  also  to  be  by  himself  and  away  from 
people,  so  that  his  meditations  should  not  be  inter- 
rupted; and  if  any  thought  that  interested  him  very 
much  came  to  him  while  he  was  in  company,  no 
matter  what  miglit  be  said  to  him,  he  never  answered 
a  questioner,  until  his  mind  had  approved  or  dis- 
approved the  thought.  Tliis  often  happened  to  him 
when   he   was   at   table,   or   travelling,   or   elsewhere. 

"In  his  studies  he  was  very  assiduous,  so  that 
while  he  was  busy  over  them,  no  news  of  any  kind 
could  stir  him  from  them.  As  to  this  way  of  concen- 
trating himself  entirely  on  what  interested  him, 
this  anecdote  is  told  by  relial)Ic  people.  Once  upon 
a  time  he  was  in  Siena  and  haj)i)ened  upon  an 
apothecary's  shof),  where  he  was  given  a  book  of 
great  repute  among  men  of  parts,  which  (though 
promised  to  him  some  time  before)  he  had  never  seen. 


THE    LAST    YEARS  171 

It  chanced  that  there  was  no  other  place  for  him 
to  go  with  the  book,  so  he  leaned  against  the  counter 
in  front  of  the  apothecary's,  put  the  book  before 
him,  and  began  to  examine  it  most  greedily.  A  little 
while  afterwards,  in  that  same  quarter  of  the  town, 
right  in  front  of  him,  for  it  was  a  great  holiday  in 
Siena,  the  young  nobles  held  a  kind  of  tournament, 
and  the  people  looking  on  made  a  tremendous  noise 
(shouting  and  playing  all  kinds  of  instruments  as 
their  custom  is),  and  all  sorts  of  other  things  were 
going  on,  such  as  dances  by  pretty  ladies  and  games 
by  young  men,  that  would  draw  anybody's  atten- 
tion ;  but  nobody  saw  him  stir  or  once  lift  up  his 
eyes  from  his  book.  On  the  contrary,  although  he  had 
taken  his  position  there  about  noon,  it  was  past 
vespers,  and  he  had  looked  through  the  whole  book 
and  had  got  a  summarized  idea  of  it  all,  before  he 
got  up;  and  when  some  people  asked  him  how  he 
had  been  able  to  keep  from  looking  at  so  beautiful 
a  show  as  had  just  passed  before  him,  he  answered 
that  he  had  noticed  nothing." 

The  other  biographers  add  little  or  nothing  to 
Boccaccio's  description.  As  to  the  various  portraits, 
none  were  painted  from  Dante  himself,  but  they  all 
appear  to  point  to  a  common  source,  and  therefore 
deserve  a  fair  measure  of  credit.  The  youthful  por- 
trait, attributed  to  Giotto,  painted  on  the  wall  of  the 
chapel  in  the  Bargello,  now  much  altered  from  its 
original  condition,  stands  sorely,  it  seems  to  me,  in 
need  of  an  elaborate  defense.  But  even  its  apologists 
will  hardly  claim  that  it  was  painted  while  Dante 
was   of   that   youthful    age.    For   some    two   hundred 


1T2  DANTE 

years  there  was  a  portrait  on  the  wall  of  Santa 
Croce,  painted  by  Taddco  Gaddi,  either  from 
description  or  from  memory,  but  it  was  destroyed 
in  the  sixteenth  century.  The  death  mask  is  not 
genuine.  For  the  lovers  of  Dante  the  bronze  bust  in 
the  museum  at  Naples  is,  however,  an  admirable 
effigy  to  express  Dante's  character,  and  may  well 
remain  his  accepted  likeness. 


APPENDIX 

SUGGESTIONS    FOR    BEGINNERS 

THERE  are  many  English  translations  of  the  Divine 
Comedy.  With  some  of  these,  success  seems  to  have 
been  due  to  causes  other  than  their  intrinsic  merits. 
Cary's  was  published  early  in  the  nineteenth  century;  it  is 
in  blank  verse,  faithful  and  forcible,  and  yet  much  of  its 
popularity  has  come  because  it  was  virtually  the  first  in  the 
field.  Longfellow's  appeared  shortly  after  our  civil  war;  it 
is  written  in  somewhat  irregular  blank  verse,  is  conscien- 
tiously accurate,  and  was  carried  into  favor  by  the  prestige 
of  his  poetical  reputation.  Norton's  was  written  about  1890; 
it  is  in  a  prose  that  follows  the  Italian  text  with  scrupulous 
fidelity.  These  three  are  probably  the  translations  best 
known  in  this  country. 

Translators  are  confronted  at  the  outset  by  the  question 
whether  they  shall  follow  Dante's  form  and  write  in  terza 
rima,  or  boldly  turn  their  backs  on  that  difficulty  and  write 
in  prose,  or  trim  and  adopt  some  riming  or  rhythmic  meas- 
ure intermediate  between  terza  rima  and  prose.  Terza  rima 
is  alien  to  the  genius  of  the  English  language,  whatever 
Lord  Byron  or  Rupert  Brooke  may  essay,  or  Shelley  in  a 
fragment  may  achieve.  English  syllables  end  in  consonants; 
whereas  in  Italian  four  words  out  of  five  end  in  vowels,  and 
those  that  end  in  a  consonant  trail  softly  away  in  an  r  or  an 
/.  This  difference  renders  the  use  of  tliose  intricately  inter- 
woven rimes  of  terza  rima  quite  out  of  the  question  in  Eng- 
lish, although  they  have  been  often  tried,  for  instance  by 
Cayley,  Plumptre,  and  Haselfoot;  and  the  same  may  be 
said  of  the  fantastic  translation  in  rime  by  C.  !>.  Shadwell. 

On  the  other  hand,  to  translate  poetry  composed  with 
rhythm  and  rime  into  prose  is  to  confess  an  astonishing 
degree  of  inadequacy,  an  inadequacy  that  may  be  measured 
by  supposing  the  contrary  process,  for  instance,  that  a 
Frenchman  were  to  translate  Bacon's  Essays  into  alexan- 
drine verse. 

173 


174  D  A  N  T  E 

There  remains  then  the  via  media,  and  that  in  English  must 
be  blanlc  verse.  This  measure  is  freiglited  with  all  the 
authority  of  the  greatest  tradition  in  English  literature;  in 
it  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Wordsworth  wrote,  and  from  the 
days  of  our  earliest  acquaintance  with  poetry  we  are  taught 
to  regard  it  as  the  appropriate  verse  for  heroic  themes. 
Blank  verse  is — it  should  seem  beyond  (juestion — the  proper 
medium  for  a  translation  of  Dante.  And  if  any  readers  pro- 
pose to  confine  themselves  to  English,  they  should  take  a 
version  done  in  i)lank  verse. 

But  nobody  who  wishes  to  know  Dante  will  confine  him- 
self to  an  English  version.  Poetry  is  the  wedded  union  of 
words  and  music.  Music  lies  in  the  order  of  words;  and 
beauty,  strength,  and  vividness  of  language  lie  both  in  the 
choice  of  words  and  in  tlieir  order  wlien  chosen.  Masters  of 
language  instinctively  feel  the  relations  between  each  word 
and  those  which  ]) recede  and  follow  it.  As  Coleridge  says, 
poetry  is  the  best  words  in  the  best  order.  The  best  order 
of  words  in  English  is  a  very  l)ad  order  in  Italian,  and  the 
best  order  of  words  in  Italian  is  feel)le  and  unintelligible  in 
English.  There  seems  little  room  here  for  difference  of 
opinion.  Dante  says:  "Let  everyone  know  that  nothing 
which  hath  the  harmony  of  nmsical  connection  can  be 
transferred  from  its  own  tongue  into  another  without  shat- 
tering all  its  sweetness  and  harmony"  (Conv.  I,  7).  The 
reader  may  accept  for  certain  that  in  every  English  ver- 
sion the  harmony  and  sweetness  of  Dante's  jioetry  lie  shat- 
tered, even  when,  as  in  Rossetti's  translations  of  sonnets 
and  canzoni,  there  is  an  English  harmony  and  an  English 
sweetness. 

It  is  true  that  many  people,  who  have  not  the  leisure  to 
studv  Italian,  would  like  to  know  something  of  the  Divine 
Corned]/;  it  seems  also  to  be  true  that  almost  everybody 
who  has  the  leisure  and  inclination  to  study  Italian  likes  to 
begin  with  the  JMvine  Comedy.  In  either  case,  let  the 
neophyte  get  Professor  Henry  Johnson's  or  Professor 
Courtney  Langdon's  translation,  or,  as  more  portable — 
making  in  every  way  less  demand  on  the  pocket — the  edi- 
tion   of    the    Divine    Comedy    published    in    the    Temple 


APPENDIX  175 

Classics;  then  let  him  read  the  English  story,  and  every 
now  and  again,  when  he  is  stirred  by  a  special-jpassage,  line 
or  word,  let  him  turn  to  the  Italian,  which  he  will  find 
printed  on  the  opposite  page.  He  would  do  equally  well, 
indeed  in  some  respects  better,  to  take  W.  W.  Vernon's 
Readincjs  on  the  Inferno,  the  Purgatorio,  and  the  Paradiso; 
or  A.  J.  Butler's  edition.  These  books  have  the  translation 
on  the  same  page,  and  long  comments  and  elucidations 
as  well. 

The  beginner  may  know  nothing  of  Italian,  but  the  mere 
uttering  aloud,  even  if  with  horrible  mispronunciation,  of 
Italian  syllables  that  were  written  by  Dante,  in  the  very 
language  spoken  by  him,  by  Beatrice,  by  Brunetto  Latini, 
by  Farinata,  by  Ugolino,  by  Francesca  da  Rimini,  conjures 
up  over  the  page  a  lovely  haze  such  as  lingers  over  the 
Arno,  when  the  evening  star  looks  down,  of  a  June  evening, 
after  the  sun  has  set. 

For  the  English-speaking  foreigner  Italian  words  have 
all  the  charm  of  Italy.  They  are  fragrant  with  her  fragance, 
beautiful  with  her  beauty;  they  call  up  before  our  imagina- 
tions all  we  have  seen  or  heard  or  read  of  Italy — the  Bay 
of  Naples,  the  stark  Apennines,  tlie  stone  pines,  the  roman- 
tic architecture,  the  frescoed  walls,  the  world-famous  rivers, 
the  plains  of  Umbria,  the  trellised  vineyards.  They  walk 
across  the  printed  page  like  gay  masqueraders,  or  when 
serious,  with  a  solemnity  that  our  English  words  have  lost 
through  familiarity.  English  words,  read  in  the  papers  and 
heard  daily  bandied  about,  lose  their  bloom,  they  become 
hackneyed,  stale;  but  to  the  sensitive  beginner  the  novel 
Italian  words  are  of  an  exquisite  rarity  and  ])regnaiit  with 
meaning.  And  a  chance  recognition  of  a  new  word  through 
its  Latin  origin  or  its  French  relationship,  makes  it  warmly 
welcome.  I  suspect  that  the  English  student,  in  the  senti- 
mental first  stage  of  his  acquaintance  with  Dante,  gets  far 
more  significance  from  the  Italian  words  than  Italian  youths 
do.  At  any  rate,  a  translation  in  itself  is  a  dead  tiling; 
it  cannot  be  the  equivalent  of  living  Italian.  Indeed,  it  is 
impossible  to  say  how  barren  is  the  English  version  without 


176  DANTE 

the  Italian  text  to  look  at,  and  how  amazing  a  richness  is 
conferred  by  merely  an  occasional  glance  at  the  Italian. 

This  little  book  has  been  prepared  for  readers,  bred  upon 
the  religious  and  scientific  ideas  of  modern  times,  who  seek 
a  spiritual  meaning  in  Dante  and  are  indifferent  to  thir- 
teenth-century theology  and  astronomy;  and  so  it  counsels 
such  readers  to  skim  lightly  over  Dante's  elaborate  reckon- 
ings of  the  time  of  day,  his  explanations  of  the  density  of 
the  moon  or  the  influences  of  the  stars,  and  all  natural  his- 
tory taken  from  Aristotle.  From  this  point  of  view,  for 
proper  reading  introductory  to  Dante,  the  l)eginner  should 
go  to  Isaiah,  the  Psalms,  St.  Paul,  Plotinus,  St.  Augustine's 
Confessions,  or  rather,  to  selected  j)arts  of  such  books,  also 
to  the  Lives  of  St.  Catherine  of  Siena,  of  St.  Theresa,  and 
to  passages  from  Ruysbroeck,  from  the  Lady  Juliana  of 
Norwich,  Brother  Lawrence,  and  St.  John  of  the  Cross,  as 
well  as  to  sundry  chapters  of  Miss  Underbill's  book 
Mysticism. 

Dante  is  a  prophet  of  the  spiritual  life,  and  he  is  best 
understood,  not  by  studying  Benvenuto  da  Imola,  Witte, 
Scartazzini,  Moore,  Gardner,  and  other  eminent  .scholars 
and  commentators,  but  by  making  ourselves  familiar  with 
the  thoughts  of  those  men  who  held  the  same  spiritual  view 
of  life  that  Dante  did. 

Nol)ody  who  has  any  knowledge  of  Dante  or  any  acquaint- 
ance with  the  l)ulky  literature  of  explanation  that  encircles 
him,  can  entertain  any  feeling  other  than  deep  respect  and 
gratitude  to  the  scholars  who  have  dedicated  their  lives  to 
the  service  of  the  great  poet.  They  constitute  the  goodly 
company  of  amici  della  Memoria  di  Dante,  for  we  may  well 
apply  to  them  the  title  assumed  by  Leonardo  Bruni.  They 
have  cleared  away  difTiculties  in  the  text;  they  rave  eluci- 
dated the  meaning  of  old  words;  they  have  tracked  to  their 
sources  a  thousand  references  and  allusions  taken  by  Dante 
from  all  the  known  literature  that  existed  before  him;  they 
have,  as  it  were,  digged,  drained  and  reclaimed  a  great  part 
of  the  slough  of  ol)scurity  that  surrounded  the  sacred  poem, 
so  that  now  we  all,  if  we  will,  may  approach  it  over  a  solid 


APPENDIX  177 

road  of  scholarship.  Not  to  mention  their  labors,  even  in  a 
little  elementary  l)ook  lilvc  this,  would  be  to  slam  the  door 
in  the  face  of  intellectual  curiosity.  But  the  palace  of  learn- 
ing is  like  a  mediaeval  castle,  with  outer  courts,  inner 
courts,  halls,  chambers,  corridors,  intricate  passage-ways, 
and  underground  vaults,  where  duly  authorized  ciceroni 
only  are  competent  to  guide  and  explain;  a  primer  can  but 
point  the  finger  in  certain  directions  and  offer  certain 
general  suggestions. 

The  beginner  should  read  certain  essays  on  Dante  that 
have  become  classical;  that  by  Thomas  Carlyle  on  The  Hero 
as  Poet  and  those  by  R.  W.  Church,  James  Russell  Lowell, 
and  Charles  Eliot  Norton.  C.  A.  Dinsmore's  Aids  to  the 
Study  of  Dante  is  an  unusually  good  book.  The  beginner 
should  buy  the  three  little  volumes  of  the  Temple  Classics 
which  contain  the  Inferno,  the  Purgatorio,  and  the  Para- 
diso,  Italian  on  one  side,  English  on  the  other,  and  also  the 
volume  that  contains  the  Vita  Nuova  and  the  Canzoniere; 
and  whenever  he  goes  for  a  solitary  walk,  of  a  Sunday  or 
in  his  holidays,  he  should  carry  one  of  them  in  his  pocket. 

Beyond  this  no  primer  should  be  dogmatic,  but  a  bit  of 
advice  may  be  given.  Let  the  beginner  go  to  some  library, 
such  for  instance  as  the  Harvard  College  library,  take  down 
from  the  shelves  a  volume  or  two  of  the  early  commenta- 
tors, and  dip  into  them,  hov.ever  casuaUy;  for  there  is  in 
their  ancient  pages  an  odor  of  reverence,  of  filial  piety,  that 
communicates  itself  through  the  touch  of  the  hands  and  the 
look  of  the  paragraphs,  and  the  visitor — as  if  he  were  in 
some  religious  building  in  a  foreign  land — cannot  but  feel 
a  soothing  calm  from  the  consciousness  that  he  is  in  the 
midst  of  disciples  of  a  very  great  man.  Here  is  a  list  of 
those  earliest  commentators: 

Chiose  Anonime  alia  prima  Cantica  della  Divina  Comme- 
dia  (Ed.  Selmi,  1S6.5).  This  gloss  is  believed  to  be  the 
earliest,  and  has  been  assigned,  at  a  guess,  to  the  year  13:30. 

II  Commento  all'  Inferno  di  Graziuolo  de'  Bamhaglioli 
(Udine,  1892).  This  is  assigned  to  the  year  1321  or  there- 
abouts. 


178  DANTE 

Chiose  alia  Cantica  deJl'  Inferno  di  Dante  AUighieri 
attribuite  a  Jacopo  nuo  figlio  (Florence,  1848).  This  is  of 
about  tlie  same  date. 

Commento  di  Jacopo  di  Giovanni  dalla  Lana  (Milan, 
1865).  Probably  written  a  little  before  1330. 

L'Ottimo  Commento  dclla  Divina  Cominedia  (Pisa,  1827). 
Written,  perhaps  by  Andrea  Lancia,  a  little  after  1330. 

Petri  AUegherii  Comm,entarium  (Florence,  1845).  This  is 
a  commentary  on  the  whole  Comedy  by  Dante's  son  Pietro; 
it  was  com])osed  about  1340. 

II  Comento  sopra  la  Commedia  di  Dante  Alighieri  di 
Giovanni  Boccaccio.  (There  are  various  editions.)  This  con- 
tains the  substance  of  Boccaccio's  lectures  in  1373;  it  ends 
abruptly,  owing  to  his  death,  in  Canto  XVII  of  the  Inferno. 

Benvcnuli  dc  Hainhaldis  de  Imola  Comcntum  super 
Dantiii  Aldigherij  Comaidiam  (Florence,  1887).  This  was 
written  in  1375. 

Divers  sorts  of  curiosity  take  the  beginner  to  one  or 
another  of  these  connnentaries;  one  is  the  oldest,  one  by 
Dante's  son,  another  (that  by  Benvenuto  da  Imola)  is  by 
far  the  longest  and  tiie  l)est,  a  fourth  was  written  l)y  that 
attractive  ])erson,  Giovanni  Boccaccio;  two  are  in  Latin, 
the  rest  in  Italian.  The  beginner  will  do  no  more  than  read 
a  few  lines  here  and  tlicrc;  and,  even  at  that,  he  should  be 
on  his  guard,  and  rememl)er  to  make  allowance  for  the 
changed  significance  of  words.  These  old  conunentators  all 
call  Beatrice  Theology,  whereas  we  should  call  her  the 
Knowledge  of  Cod  or  better  still,  the  Wisdom  of  Love,  for 
God  is  Love;  to  them  Theology  was  a  radiant  light,  but  to 
us  it  usually  recalls  Faust's  remark,  wlien  enumerating  his 
studies, — Philosophy,  .rwrisjirudcnce.  Medicine,  "und  leider 
audi  Theologie." 

Sometimes  the  beginner  has  a  curiosity  to  know  at  least 
the  names  of  Dante's  early  biographers.  They  arc: 

Giovanni  Villani  (1275P-134S) ;  Cronica,  Book  VIII, 
Chap.  49.  A  very  brief  account  of  the  poet  and  liis  works. 

Giovanni  Boccaccio  (1313-1375);  Tra.llatello  in  laude  di 
Dante,  a  Little  Treatise  in  praise  of  Dante,  written  about 


APPENDIX  179 

IStiA;  and  the  Compendio,  which  is  the  Trattatello  with 
variations  of  no  great  importance,  apparently  made  not  l)y 
Boccaccio  but  by  some  unknown  liand. 

Filippo  Villani,  a  nephew  of  Giovanni  (d.  about  1310); 
De  Vita  et  Moribus  Dant'iK,  a.  brief  biography  included  with 
others  of  illustrious   Florentines. 

Leonardo  Bruni,  also  called  Lionardo  Aretino  (1370- 
1444) ;  La  Vita  di  Dante.  Bruni  had  before  him  some  orig- 
inal documents  unknown  to  Boccaccio. 

These,  together  with  several  fifteenth-century  biographies, 
and  some  scattered  scraps  concerning  Dante's  life,  are  pub- 
lished together  in  a  large  volume,  in  the  Storia  Letteraria 
d'ltalia.  Of  them  all  Boccaccio's  is  by  far  the  best,  and 
Bruni's  next;  these  two  have  been  translated  by  J.  Robin- 
son Smith  (H.  Holt,  1901),  and  by  P.  H.  Wicksteed  (Chatto 
and  Windus,  1911).  The  other  biographies  have  little  value. 

For  the  reader  who  merely  desires  a  brief  account  of 
what  is  known  of  Dante  and  his  times,  there  are  several 
little  books:  Dante  Alighieri,  his  Life  and  Works,  by  Paget 
Toynbee;  Dante,  by  E.  G.  Gardner;  Dante,  by  C.  H.  Grand- 
gent.  There  are  also,  of  course,  very  large  books  with  full 
exposition  of  the  evidence  concerning  the  events  of  Dante's 
life,  such  as  Dante;  sein  Leben  und  sein  Werk,  etc.,  by 
Franz  Xaver  Kraus  (1897),  or  Dante,  by  Nicola  Zingarelli 
in  the  Storia  Letteraria  d'ltalia. 

But  I  have  more  than  reached  my  limit,  and  I  bid  the 
student  Godspeed  upon  his  more  ambitious  road, 

lo  tuo  piacere  omai  prendi  per  duce. 

He  will  sit  at  the  feet  of  Karl  Witte  (the  great  German 
scholar,  with  his  Dante-Forschungen),  of  Scartazzini,  the 
Swiss,  who  wrote  in  German  and  Italian,  of  Karl  \^ossler, 
an  authority  now  living,  of  Dante's  countrymen,  Pio  Rajna, 
Corrado  Uicci,  Tommaso  Casini,  Francesco  Torraca,  of  the 
learned  Englishmen,  E.  Moore,  Paget  Toynbee,  E.  G. 
Gardner,  P.  H.  Wicksteed,  and  of  other  scholars,  whose 
reputations  are  now  in  the  making,  both  English  and 
American.  He  will  take  from  the  shelf  the  three  concord- 
ances. Concordance  of  the  Divina  Commedia,  by  E.  A.  Fay, 


180  D  A  N  T  E 

Concordanza  delle  opere  Italiane  in  prosa  e  del  canzoniere 
di  Dante  AUghieri,  by  E.  S.  Sheldon  and  A.  C.  White,  and 
Dantis  Alagherii  Operum  Latinorum  Concordantiae,  by 
E.  K.  Rand,  E.  H.  Wilkins,  and  A.  C.  White.  But  I  have 
already  fjone  too  far,  and  I  obey  the  Scholar's  voice  that 
sternly  addresses  me  and  my  fellow  dilettanti: 

O   roi,  che  .ilete   in   picciolefta  barca, 
tornute  a  riveder  li  vostri  liti. 


INDEX 

ALLEGORY,  in  the  Middle  Ages,  39. 
Apocalypse,  18-19. 
Augustine,  St.,  his  conversion,  21-22;  on  sin,  80;  on  lust,  85; 
on   prayer,   101;   conversation  with   Monica   on   "Enter 
thou  into  the  joy  of  thy  Lord,"  138-140. 

BEATRICE  (see  also  Vita  Nuova),  23;  in  Purgatorio 
her  rebuke  to  Dante,  43-46. 

Benvenuto  da  Imola,  5. 

Bernard,  St.,  159;  his  prayer  to  the  Virgin  Mary,  159-160. 

Boccaccio,  biography  of  Dante,  4;  lectures  on  Dante,  5; 
on  Dante's  studious  youth,  36;  on  allegory,  39;  on 
Dante's  licentiousness,  42;  on  his  pride,  86-87;  on 
Dante's  death  and  funeral,  165-166;  description  of 
Dante,  169-170;  anecdote  of  his  powers  of  concentra- 
tion, 170-171. 

Bochnie,  Jacob,  on  self-surrender,  132. 

Boethius,  quoted,  136. 

Bonagiunta,  119-120. 

Bonaventura,  St.,  on  drawing  near  to  God,  137. 

Boniface  VIH,  Pope,  18. 

Botticelli,  5. 

Brunetto  Latinl,  relations  to  Dante,  23-24. 

Bruni,  Leonardo,  5;  on  Dante's  youth,  34;  on  his  priorate 
48;  on  Dante's  drawing,  79. 

Butler,  A.  J.,  175. 

Bunyan,  his  conversion,  22;  on  sin,  81. 

Byron,  on  Dante's  tenderness,  11. 

CACCIAGUIDA,  151. 
Can  Grande,  Dante's  letter  to,  40. 
Carlyle,  John  A.,  9. 
Carlylc,  Thomas,  9. 
Carpenter,  Boyd,  Bishop  of  Ilipon,  1. 
181 


182  INDEX 

Casella,  118-119. 

Catherine,  St.,  of   Siena,   on  her   conversion,   lO^;   on  love, 

14:2-113. 

Cavalcanti,  harsh  words  on  Dante,  42. 

Chaucer,    translation    of    St.    Bernard's    prayer,    etc.,   Par. 

XXXIII,  lGO-161. 
Church,  Dean,  9. 
Coleridge,  on  pride,  86. 
Commedia,  its  ranli,  1 ;  its  career,  4 ;   reasons  therefor,  10- 

13;  two  aspects,  74;  its  ethical  teaching,  115. 
Convivio,  II;  Lady  of  the  Window   (Philosophy),   (II,  Ch, 

13),  41;   on  his  exile    (I,  Ch.   3),  50;   contents   of  the 

treatise,  65-66;  definition  of  love  (III,  Ch.  2),  129;  on 

translation   (I,  Ch.  7),  174. 

DANIEL,  ARNAUT,  121. 
Dante,  his  fame  in  Italy,  7;  in  Spain,  8;  in  France, 
8;  in  Germany,  8;  in  England,  9;  in  the  United  States, 
9;  a  great  poet,  10;  a  prophet,  11;  his  birth,  14;  his 
views  on  the  Roman  Empire,  14;  the  influence  of  Bea- 
trice and  of  Exile,  22;  his  youth,  34;  his  studie:;,  36;  the 
Lady  of  the  Window,  37;  attitude  towards  allegory, 
39;  letter  to  Can  Grande,  40;  sins  of  the  flesh,  42;  ode 
to  Pietra,  42;  Beatrice's  rebuke  in  Purgatory,  43-46; 
life  l)efore  exile,  48;  condenmation,  49;  exile,  49-50; 
wanderings,  53;  hopes  to  return,  53-56;  letter  to 
Princes  of  Italy,  54-55;  letter  to  Henry  VII,  55;  letter 
on  offer  of  pardon,  56-57;  his  pride,  85-87;  his  descent 
into  hell,  87-88;  up  the  Mount  of  Purgatory,  93  et  seq.; 
rapt  to  Heaven,  145;  last  years,  163;  at  Ravenna,  163- 
164;  treatise  on  Earth  and  Water,  164;  embassy  to 
Venice,  165;  death,  165;  funeral,  165-166;  gossip  as  to 
first  seven  cantos  of  Inferno,  166;  anecdote  <'is  to  last 
thirteen  cantos  of  Paradiso,  166-169;  personal  char- 
acteristics, 169-170;  anecdote  of  his  absorption  in  read- 
ing, 170-171;  his  portraits,  171-172. 

Delacroix,  on  mysticism,  133. 

Donati,  Forese,  42. 

Donne  ch'avete  intellello  d'amore   (canzone),   119. 


INDEX  183 

EDWARDS,  JONATHAN  E.,  on  contemplation,  152-153. 
Edwards,  Mrs.  Jonathan,  on  love,  143-144. 
Emerson,  Over-Soul,  quoted,  105,  134. 
Epistola  V,  quoted,  54-55. 
Epistola  VII,  quoted,  55. 
Epistola  IX,  quoted,  56-57. 
Epistola  X,  quoted,  40,  115. 

FARINATA  DEGLI  UBERTI,  77. 
Filelfo,  5. 
Fox,  George,  on  conversion,  103-104;  on  purification,  126. 
Francesca  da  Rimini,  76,  94. 
Francis,  St.,  of  Assisi,  his  conversion,  104. 
Frederick  II,  63. 

GARDNER,  E.  G.,  Dante  and  the  Mystics,  quoted,  136- 
137. 
Gertrude,  St.,  on  love,  141-142;  on  God's  presence,  158. 
Giardino,  Piero,  anecdote  told  hy,  166-169. 
Giotto,  171. 

Grace,  on  divine,  102-104. 
Guido  Novell!,  Count,  163,  164-166. 
Guido,  vorrei  die  tu,  etc.  (sonnet),  35. 
Guinizelli,  ode,  Al  cor  gentil,  33;  Dante's  apostrophe  to,  in 

Purgatory,  64. 
Guittone  d'Arczzo,  64,  120. 
Guyon,  Madame,  104-105. 

ILARIO,  FRA,  letter  of,  57-58. 
Inferno,  quoted,  grant  of  riches  to  Papacy  (XIX,  115- 
117),  18;  Sinioniacal  popes  (XIX),  18;  scarlet  woman 
of  the  Apocalypse,  IS;  calling  attention  to  the  allegory 
(IX,  61-63),  74;  lines  over  portal  (III,  9),  75;  the 
trimmers  (III,  34-12),  76;  Ulysses  (XXVI,  112-120), 
78;  Ugolino  and  Ruggieri  (XXXII-XXXIII),  78; 
Maestro  Adamo  (XXX,  63-67),  82;  gluttony  (VI,  10- 
12),  82-83;  mad  rage  (XII,  22-25),  83;  Beatrice's  nar- 
rative to  Virgil   (II,  52-72,  94-120),  88-91. 


184  INDEX 

Isainh,   on    Israel    (i,  4-7),   Ifi;    on   the   daughters   of   Zion 

(iii,  l()-23),  20;  his  ilhiiiiination,  21. 
Italy,  her  wretched  condition,  16-17. 

JACOPO,  Dante's  son,  l;  anecdote  of  finding  last  cantos 
of  Pariidiso,  167-109. 
Jacopo  da  Lentino,  the  Notary,  63-6t,  120. 
James,  St.,  on  hope,  154.;  Epistle  of,  156. 
John  of  the  Cross,  on  finding  God,  51-52;  on  prayer,  100; 
on  purification  by  fire,  110;  on  the  will  of  God,  131-132. 
John,  St.,  154. 
Johnson,  Henry,  10,  174. 

LADY  of  the  AVindow,  37,  41  et  seq. 
I.andino,  5. 
Langdon,  Courtney,  10,  174. 
Lawrence,  Brother,  quoted,  105,  126-127. 
Longfellow,  Henry  W.,  9. 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  10. 

MACAULAY,  on  Paradise  Lost,  3. 
Maeterlinck,  quoting  Plotinus,  137. 
Manetti,  5. 

Martineau,  James,  on  meditation,  152. 
Matilda,  124-125. 
Meditation,  152. 
Jlcisler  Eckhardt,  quoted,  52. 
Michelangelo,  sonnet  to  Dante,  6. 
Milton,  Paradise  Lost  and  the  Divine  Comedy,  3;  on  purity, 

12.5-126. 
Monarchia,  De,  contents  of,  68-71;  on  peace,  95. 
Moore,  Edward,  9,  179. 
Mystics,  130. 


N 
O 


C)RT(JN,  CHARLES   ELIOT,   10. 


ELSNER,  H.,  9. 
Ollre  la  spera  (sonnet),  31. 


INDEX  185 

PARADISE  LOST,  compared  to  Divine  Comedj/.  3. 
Paradiso,  Introduction  to,  129;  ParmViso  itself,  14G; 
passages  quoted;  on  Justinian  (VI),  1j;  on  rich  priests 
(XXI,  137-132),  18;  on  Florence,  decay  of  simple  man- 
ners (XV),  19-20;  prophecy  of  Dante's  exile  (XVII, 
55-60),  50;  opening  of  (I,  1-2),  129;  his  superhuman 
experience  (I,  4-6,  73-75),  145;  diflferences  in  blessed- 
ness (XV,  35-36),  147;  Dante's  conception  of  the  work- 
ings of  divine  energy  (II),  149;  Piccarda  (III,  70-87), 
150;  on  the  value  of  worldly  things  (XXII,  136-138), 
154;  belief  in  one  God  (XXH',  130-132),  155;  on  hope 
(XXV,  67-69),  155;  Empyrean  (XXX  39-42),  157;  the 
light  of  God's  presence  (XXX,  100-102),  158;  St. 
Bernard's  prayer  to  the  Virgin  Mary  (XXXIII)  160; 
Dante  reaches  the  immediate  presence  of  God  («'&.)> 
161-162;  Dante's  inability  to  describe  what  he  saw  {ih.), 
162;  end,  162. 

Pascal,  126. 

Paul,  St.,  his  illumination,  21 ;  Epistle  to  the  Romans  (i,  28- 
31),  81-82;  on  his  l)eing  rapt  to  heaven  (II  Cor.,  xii, 
1-4),  144-145. 

Peter,  St.,  154. 

Piccarda,  150. 

Pier  della  Vigne,  77. 

Pietro,  Dante's  son,  4,  167. 

Plato,  Symposium  quoted,  127-128. 

Plotinus,  quoted,  137. 

Plumptre,  Dean,  9. 

Prayer,  efficacy  in  Purgatory,  100. 

Provencal  poetry,  63. 

Pucci,  Antonio,  on  Dante,  61. 

Purgcttorio,  92;  the  happy  side  of,  114;  passages  quoted:  on 
Trajan  (X,  73),  15;  on  wretched  condition  of  Italy 
(VI,  76-87),  17;  on  papal  malfeasance,  19;  on  Forese 
Donati  (XXIII),  42;  on  Beatrice's  rebuke  of  Dante 
(XXX,  108),  43;  ib.  (XXX,  115-145),  44-45;  ib. 
(XXXI,  22-30),  45;  ib.,  34-37,  45;  ib..  44-45,  46;  ib.,  49- 
60,  46;  ib.  (XXXIII,  88-90),  47;  Guinizelli  (XXVI, 
97-99),  64;  Dante  calls  attention  to  allegory  (VIII,  19- 


186  INDEX 

ill),  74.;  opening  lines  of  (I,  i-6),  93;  on  divine  lip;ht 
(I,  13-17),  93;  on  goinjz;  up  at  night  (VII,  44),  94;  on 
peace  (III,  74-75),  9G;  do  (V,  Gl-GS),  90;  do  (XXI, 
13),  97;  do  (XXVI,  54),  97;  do  (XV,  131-132),  97;  do 
(XXVII,  115-117),  98;  the  pagan  virtues  (I,  23),  9S; 
the  steep  ascent  (III,  4G-51),  99;  do  (IV,  25-29),  99; 
the  ascent  becomes  easier  higher  up  (IV,  88-90),  100; 
on  prayer  (II,  28-29),  101;  do  (IX,  108-110),  101-102; 
do  (Xill,  10-17),  102;  on  divine  grace  (I,  G8),  107;  do 
(IX,  52-61),  107-108;  the  proud  (X,  XI),  and  the 
envious  (XIII,  XIV),  109;  going  through  fire 
(XXVII),  110;  do  (XXVII,  35-36),  111;  do  (ib.,  43- 
44),  111;  do  {ib.,  54),  111;  Virgil's  leavctaking 
(XXVII,  127-142),  112;  exhortation  not  to  fear  pains 
(X,  106-110),  117;  reference  to  swallow  (IX,  13-14), 
117;  to  the  homesick  traveler  (VIII,  1-G),  117;  Casella 
(II,  106-111),  118-119;  the  true  poet  (XXIV,  52-60), 
120;  Sordello  (VII,  16-19),  121;  angel  of  humility 
(XII,  88-90),  122;  Virgil's  rebuke  of  human  baseness 
(XIV,  148-150),  123;  Matilda  (the  happiness  of  inno- 
cence)   (XXVIII,  37-66),  124-125. 

ROSSRTTI,  I).  G.,  9,  32,  33,  120. 
Rutherford,  Mark,  on  the  love  of  woman,  24-25. 
Ruysbroeck,  131. 

SCARTAZ'/JNI,  8-9,  179. 
Shelley,  on  Dante's  tenderness,  11. 
Sordello,  121-122. 
Statius,  121,  122. 

TANTO   f/enlile,  tanto  onesta  pare    (sonnet),  30. 
Tolstoi,  on  brotherhood  of  nations,  70;  on  conversion  to 
a  new  life,  106;  on  the  infinite,  134-135. 
Toynbee,  I'agct,  9,  179. 

UGOLINO,  78. 
Ulysses,  77-78. 
Underbill,  Evelyn,  Mysticism  quoted,  52,  104-105,  131,  133. 


INDEX  187 

VERNON,  LORD,  9. 
Vernon,  W.  W.,  5,  9,  175. 
Villani,  Filippo,  5. 

^Mllani,  Giovanni,  on  Dante,  5;  on  his  pride,  86. 
^'irfril,  88,  112. 
Vita  Nuova,  25-32, 
Vossler,  Karl,  8. 
Vulc/ari  Eloquentia,  De,  62,  65. 

WICKSTEED,  P.  H.,  9,  179. 
Witte,  Karl,  8,  179. 
Wordsworth,    The    Excursion    quoted,    113;    Ode    to    Duty 
quoted,  123. 


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